Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord
by Soledad
Summary: It is the last incarnation of the Doctor, and he's stranded on Earth with a broken TARDIS and with a serious wrong he needs to right. However, the way to that is a long and arduous one. Features nearly all Sherlock regulars and a great deal of Whoniverse characters, old and new ones. Renamed from Ginger At Last
1. Part 01: The Landing

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD  
**

**By Soledad**

**Fandom:** Sherlock BBC/Dr. Who crossover.

**Genre:** Action-adventure/Friendship, with a grain of humour.

**Rating:** Teens, just to be on the safe side.

**Timeframe:** past Torchwood: Children of Earth for "Dr. Who"; starting pre-series and including an alternate version of the unaired pilot for "Sherlock".

**Series:** Yep, this is one, okay?

**Disclaimer:** Dr. Who belongs to the BBC. Sherlock Holmes and the related characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. However, these particular versions of them belong to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, may they never grow tired of the series. Only the weird crossover idea belongs to me.

**Summary:** It is the last incarnation of the Doctor, and he's stranded on Earth with a broken TARDIS and with a serious wrong he needs to right. However, the way to that is a long and arduous one.

* * *

**Introduction**

The basic idea to this series was born when I saw a picture of Benedict Cumberbatch as a redhead. I was reminded of the Doctor's eternal woe about never regenerating as a ginger, so I did him the favour. So, this is basically a series about the Thirteenth Doctor as Sherlock Holmes, for obvious reasons. Many other "Sherlock" characters have been replaced by "Dr. Who" characters, just for the fun of it. I strongly hope it will all make sense in the end.

There'll be some adapting of the one or other Conan Doyle story, as well as retelling certain TV canon events from a different POV. Or with a major twist. Or both. I'm also trying out a different style here, writing short, interconnected one-shots. Again, I hope it will work out in the end.

Enjoy – and if you do, give the muse a little encouragement.

Soledad

* * *

**Chapter 01 – The Landing**

**Author's note:** For the sake of this story I assumed that the 12th Doctor was played by Siddig El Fadil aka Alexander Siddig. *shrugs* I like him, and he'd certainly make a good and very different Doctor. Thirteen is played by Benedict Cumberbatch, in case you haven't guessed.

Also, I adopted the canon piece of Classic!Who that Time Lords can only regenerate thirteen times altogether. I don't know if this is still the rule, but in these settings it is.

* * *

This time the regeneration turned out a very rough ride, but that was to be expected. It always took a lot out of him, and since this was his last one, his energy reserves were all but depleted and the recovery longer and more tiresome than ever before.

Twelve lives had he already lived; some of them long, some shockingly short, but this was his last chance. He'd have to be more careful with this one. His last incarnation had crossed the thousand-year-barrier, but that was still not a particularly high age for a Time Lord. In fact, going through all possible regenerations in a mere millennium could be considered a reckless thing… or particularly bad luck.

Not that he'd ever cared what other people – even other Time Lords – would think about him.

He clambered to his feet and went to the mirror, considerately provided by the TARDIS, to check his new appearance… and gave a rather undignified squeal when he saw the thick red curls. Finally ginger! It had only taken him thirteen lives and a millennium to finally get the hair colour he'd have preferred all the time!

The rest wasn't bad either, not bad at all. Pale, aristocratic features – well, the nose was a bit short but still acceptable – large, slanted blue-green eyes, arched eyebrows like the wings of a swallow… it was a surprisingly attractive face if he said so himself. Certainly the best-looking one he'd worn for a very long time.

The body going with it earned his approval, too. For starters, he was tall again – what a relief after the scruffy little man he'd been most recently! Tall and fairly thin, with long limbs and a predatory grace to its movements that his eleventh regeneration so woefully lacked. All in all, a very good body, considering that it was going to be his last one.

"You'll do just fine," he told his mirror image and was pleased with his new voice. A warm, rich baritone; the best voice he'd had so far.

The best voice he was ever going to have, all things considered.

Now he had to choose the right outfit, which promised to be a lengthy stay in the wardrobe. This new appearance demanded something distinctively elegant; something classic. Suits, most likely. And a matching coat.

As he entered the wardrobe, the TARDIS, picking up his line of thinking, gently moved one of the sections forward. There were several classic suits, in dark grey and black, with narrow-leg trousers and two-button, slim-cut jackets. He experimentally fingered the sleeve of one jacket; the cloth was really very nice to touch. Such sombre colours weren't really his thing – at least hadn't been since his ninth incarnation – but with such a flaming hair colour he had to be careful with his choices or he'd end up looking like a clown.

Been there, done that, still feeling vaguely ashamed about it.

The same aspect was to be considered by the choice of shirts; fortunately, the TARDIS had a flawless taste in such things (whenever he chose to listen to her, which was, admittedly, a rare occasion). She offered him fitted shirts in white and in deep purple or aubergine (the latter ones with a little lilac pinstripe), which accentuated his new, slim silhouette and sat perfectly. He opted for a purple one with a dark grey suit.

By such elegant clothing wearing his beloved trainers was out of question. Naturally. In fact, he didn't even feel like wearing trainers ever again. So he followed the TARDIS' lead and pulled on the proffered black leather lace-up shoes and found them surprisingly comfortable. He also selected a stainless steel Rotary watch and fastened it around his wrist.

"Brilliant," he judged, checking his greatly improved looks in the conveniently appearing large mirror. He hadn't cared much about such things during his last four lives, but now he was beginning to understand what Jack Harkness had meant about vanity and getting older.

Was he really getting older, now that he'd reached the last leg of his journeys?

He shook his head; that was a stupid line of thought, and besides, he didn't want to burden himself with memories about Jack Harkness and what he owed the man. He'd have to give _that_ topic a great deal of thought later, but right now he was still finding his footing.

Speaking of which, he needed to get out of the TARDIS and take a look around to determine where – and, more importantly, _when_ – had he landed. The time stamp in the control room had shown twenty-first-century Britain last time he'd managed to get a glimpse, but that needed to be narrowed down. The TARDIS could never navigate well within short time distances, so one could never know…

He had no idea in which season he'd landed, either, but weather in Britain was never particularly pleasant if memory served him well. He needed a coat, because he adamantly refused to use an umbrella. Never again. Probably a scarf and a pair of gloves, too. Who could tell what the weather was doing outside?

Already a step ahead of him, the TARDIS moved forward another section, and he could see a lovely woollen coat of classic cut. Waterproof, too, with a red buttonhole on the lapel; that reminded him of the stalk of celery he once used to wear in his buttonhole – in hindsight he couldn't understand what had ridden him to do something so idiotic. But again, his dressing choices hadn't always been very distinguished.

The dark coat came with an amazingly soft, navy blue cashmere scarf that had tasselled ends. It wasn't quite as long as the knitted one in those garish colours he'd once worn, but still long enough to double it and hook it around his neck. He loved it at once. Grabbing the pair of gloves made of black leather and dark grey wool that peeked out of the pockets of the coat, he now felt armed to face reality outside of his little cocoon.

Deciding against wearing a hat, at least for the time being, he put the sonic screwdriver into his breast pocket and leaving the TARDIS to her own devices (the old girl needed more time to reconfigure herself after a regeneration than in earlier times) he stepped out to check his surroundings.

~TBC~


	2. Part 02: The Watcher

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD  
**

**By Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Well – fanfic is there to right things that went wrong in canon, right?

* * *

**Chapter 02 – The Watcher**

The man known as Mycroft Holmes – by the small handful of people aside from the British government who'd ever had the privilege to meet him in person – returned from the _Diogenes Club_ to the Holmes estate in a moderately foul mood. Not that anyone but his closest co-workers would have recognized _that_. He'd long learned to school his features _not_ to reveal anything but what he'd _want_ to be revealed.

One of said co-workers was waiting for him in the spacious study of the residence. It was a beautiful, old-fashioned room with expensive old furniture that joined a huge library. A young man in his mid-twenties, wearing a sharp, three-piece charcoal grey Savile Row suit, a button-down aubergine shirt with a silk tie and high-polished dress shoes, Ianto Jones looked supremely good for a supposedly dead man, Mycroft found.

_And_ he made the best cup of coffee on the planet.

Contrary to common belief, Mycroft Holmes preferred coffee. He only drank tea outside his private refugium, in order to keep up appearances. Appearances that were expected from somebody occupying, as he liked to put it, "a minor position in the British government".

"Rough day, Mr. Holmes?" Ianto inquired politely, while helping his employer out of his coat and hanging it up carefully, so that it wouldn't get any creases.

He had a mellow voice with a soft Welsh accent that Mycroft found very soothing – which was another reason, beside his coffee and his reliability, to keep him around.

"More like frustrating," Mycroft replied, sitting down behind his desk and accepting a cup of Ianto's magnificent coffee absent-mindedly. "Flushing out all the dirt related to the so-called 456 invasion is very time-consuming. Every time I think we've found all people involved, a new thread would pop up and we have to go after a whole new bunch of people," he breathed in the coffee vapours deeply. "Oh, I've dreamt of this all day."

"I'm still surprised that Brian Green and his fellow conspirators were able to keep _this_ from you, sir," Ianto commented softly.

There was no accusation in his voice – although he'd have been entitled to some, considering his own untimely end because of said people. Mycroft shrugged.

"You forget that I wasn't present at the first contact. In fact, I wasn't even in Britain at that time. And it was so short and isolated that I never had a reason to look for anything unusual within that particular timeframe. By the time the aliens returned, practically all evidence had long been deleted – it was easier before the global data digitalisation. Burned papers cannot be so easily reconstructed as deleted files."

Ianto nodded in acceptance because that was certainly true.

Mycroft smiled grimly. "They've tried to keep me out of the loop this time, too. Without Mummy, I'd never have found out what was happening behind the scenes. The PR and the cover-up were being handled expertly; I'm still looking for the mastermind behind the scheme, because neither Dekker, nor Frobisher would have been smart enough for that."

"True," Ianto said with a reserved little smile. "She was _amazing_. I hope she'll keep working wonders."

Mycroft nodded in sympathy. He knew what the young man was hoping for and wished the best for him.

"Don't worry," he said. "Mummy's looking for him all the time. Should he ever set foot on Earth again, we'll learn about it in the same instance. And considering your… erm… special circumstances, you've got the time to wait for him."

"True enough," Ianto allowed. "Dead men don't have to hurry."

They exchanged identical rueful smiles. Ianto still felt bad about not being able to tell his sister the truth, letting her grieve for him, but it couldn't be helped. Not before the whole 456-mess was dealt with. As long as there were still people who'd been involved free, his life would be in danger. It was better that Rhiannon grieved for him with no reason than giving her a reason to do so.

Mycroft had his own regrets, a fairly large bunch of them. He never spoke about them, and Ianto knew better than to ask.

Their discussion was interrupted by Anthea, who hurried in, keeping her eyes on her Blackberry device as always.

"Sir, we've got a positive identification," she said without looking up to them. "Mummy expects the impact in six minutes, thirty-four seconds."

The two men looked at each other in surprise.

"Well, that was unexpected," Mycroft said. "I haven't counted on him returning to Earth any time soon. Do you have the estimated coordinates of the impact?"

Anthea had them of course. She was nothing if not thorough, and she could work with Mummy like no-one else. She simply showed them the display of her Blackberry, and the two men were stunned.

"Why would he come _here_, of all places?" Ianto asked. "I thought the two of you didn't get on well."

"We don't," Mycroft replied. "But it might not be _his_ choice. Mummy isn't the only one with a will of her own."

He turned to Anthea. "I believe, my dear, it would be the best if _you_ went out to welcome him. And have Mummy deal with the surveillance devices. We don't want any CCTV footage of his arrival."

"Yes, sir," she hurried off, still focused on her Blackberry.

Mycroft looked at Ianto. "Perhaps it would be wiser if you didn't show yourself while he's here. At least for the time being. We don't know in which shape he is… or how he'd react to anyone from Torchwood."

"I seriously doubt he'd even remember me," Ianto replied bitterly, "and believe me, sir, playing nice with him is the last thing I'd want. _I'm_ not the one who'd worship the ground he walks on – quite the contrary."

"As long as you don't shoot him at fist sight, you'll be fine," Mycroft emptied his coffee cup. To his regret, the coffee had already gone cold.

"I shall try to restrain myself, sir," Ianto replied with a bland smile and retreated to Mummy's archives that were strategically hidden deep within the library.

~TBC~


	3. Part 03: ANTHEA

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** The full version of the A.N.T.H.E.A acronym is the creation of my good friend, Jenn Calaelen, whom I owe my thanks. Credit be given where credit is due. *g*

* * *

**Chapter 03 – ****A.N.T.H.E.A**

As soon as he left the TARDIS and took his first glimpse, the Doctor couldn't suppress a groan of dismay. Of all places on Earth, his ship had just to pick the Holmes estate to crash land, hadn't she?

In a way it made excellent sense, of course. If anyone, Mycroft Holmes was the most likely person to assist them with their little problem. That still didn't mean that the Doctor actually _wanted_ to meet the renegade Time Lord who'd been living on Earth in human disguise for at last fifty years.

He'd done his level best to avoid such meetings in the past – what counted as the past in his personal timeline, that is – even though, or especially because Mycroft had the annoying tendency to show up at the least convenient moment. Occupying a "minor position in the British government" – and keeping it somehow for half a century, without anyone becoming suspicious – had given the Watcher, as he'd once been known, an unfortunate advantage over the then-exiled Doctor.

Living on Earth on sufferance of UNIT had been bad enough, without his fellow Time Lord being unbearably smug about it. Even now, ten regenerations later, the Doctor felt the old annoyance well up in him.

He was not the least surprised that his arrival had already been noticed. After all, Mycroft had the best possible surveillance system on the planet – and well beyond it: the salvaged central console of a dead TARDIS, trapped on Earth without the heart of the ship that would enable him to leave. It would have noticed the falling of a leaf in the extensive park surrounding the manor house; spotting another TARDIS slamming into the earth behind the building was no real challenge for it.

As expected, it was Anthea who came to look for him: the pretty, doe-eyed brunette with the smooth, ageless face. Mycroft's highly efficient PA as far as most people were concerned. His bed warmer if one believed the gossip columns. The Doctor was probably the only one save for Mycroft himself to know who – _what_ – Anthea really was.

She was wearing a little black dress as she'd done every time they met, few as those times had been, her huge, dark eyes practically fused to her Blackberry device, her well-manicured fingers moving across the touch screen with superhuman speed. As always, the Doctor felt a pang of jealousy at the speed she was constantly receiving and correlating astonishing amounts of data; not even he could keep up with _that_, and he was several magnitudes faster than other people.

There were cases where organic beings were at definite disadvantage.

"Anthea," she said with a stiff nod, by way of greeting.

A.N.T.H.E.A, as the true identification code of the being facing him would have been spelled – it stood for Artificial Nano-Technology Human-form Executive Assistant, a definition so stupid that whoever had come up with it should have been shot on the spot – finally looked up from her Blackberry. Her luminous eyes turned opaque for a moment as she performed at least a dozen different scans on him within 4.5 seconds.

"You've regenerated," she stated the obvious.

"No kidding," he replied dryly.

She blinked again, her fingers moving over the touch screen of the Blackberry in a blur, without her needing to look at what she was doing.

"Come," she said abruptly. "Himself is waiting."

"And we can't possibly make him wait for a nanosecond too long," the Doctor commented sarcastically.

Anthea ignored him – sarcasm was wasted on her anyway – and led her into the house without a further word.

~TBC~


	4. Part 04: Mycroft

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)  
**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** No, the Watcher aka Mycroft is not a canon Time Lord. I simply made him up. And I took some poetic licence where it comes to the working of the chameleon arch. This is an AU, after all.

* * *

**Part 04 – Mycroft**

The inside of the Holmes residence had barely changed since his last visit, despite the decades gone by. It was still the same spacious Victorian house with its expensive old furniture, vintage wallpapers and hand-painted stained glass lamps as it had been half a century earlier when the stranded Time Lord stepped into the role of the eldest son of the old and respected family. A son who'd conveniently fallen victim to a guerrilla attack during the Aden Emergency.

Mycroft Holmes had barely changed himself; a fact that he liked to explain away with the amazing progress of plastic surgery in recent years… if indeed anyone happened to comment on it. Which rarely happened, as he preferred to interact with other people – especially with those who had known the original Mycroft – as little as possible. With the hush-hush job he was doing for the British government it was surprisingly easy to lead a solitary life.

He was waiting for the Doctor in the middle of his study – a surprisingly elegant, old-fashioned room with its French windows open to the park that could have doubled as a gorgeous film set. He was wearing a tailored three piece suit in sombre black, defined by the distinctive rounded cut of the waistcoat that made him look even taller than he already was, with a pale blue shirt and a navy tie. The silver chain of his ancient pocket watch – the one in which a great deal of his true being was stored – was threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat and, as always, his sleek back umbrella was leaned against his des, within reach.

Just where one would expect a powerful, well-concealed weapon to be kept.

A sinfully expensive fountain pen – black, with a gold nib, his equivalent of a sonic screwdriver – peeked out from the breast pocket of his suit jacket. The Doctor knew from personal experience that one could actually _write_ with the bloody thing, aside from its more important functions. And while he preferred his sonic screwdriver the way it was, he couldn't deny that Mycroft's solution was the more elegant one.

"My dear Doctor!" Mycroft exclaimed with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "What a surprise to see you again! I thought you'd turned your back on this planet for good!"

"You _hoped_, you mean," the Doctor returned with a scowl.

"Nonsense," Mycroft said smoothly. "I never had any objections to your presence on Earth; if I had, I'd have found a way to remove you. The planet is big enough for two of us – even if you'll have to stay a little longer this time."

"What do you mean?" the Doctor tried to hedge around the truth a little; not that he'd be able to fool Mycroft and he knew that, but admitting that he, too, was stranded here, at least for the time being, wasn't easy.

Mycroft rolled his eyes in exasperation.

"Oh, please! You crash-land in my back yard and expect me _not_ to deduce that your TARDIS wouldn't go anywhere for the next couple of years? I don't even need Mummy to calculate the possibilities for _that_! The poor ship was already a derelict when you stole it from the junkyard and aided you by how many regenerations? Ten? Eleven?"

"Twelve, actually, and you know that," the Doctor replied coldly. How typical for Mycroft to remind him that this was the last chance given to him!

"Of course I do!" Mycroft replied with an inelegant snort. "Therefore it's safe to assume that you won't be making any new trips in the next few years – if ever. You better get used to leading a settled life."

"Like you?" the Doctor asked, his new, pleasant voice dripping with sarcasm.

"God, no!" Mycroft exclaimed. "I don't want to have you around me any more than you want to _be_ around me all the time! You know how your behaviour upsets Mummy."

"_I_ upset her?" the Doctor repeated in disbelief.

Mycroft's fights with his crippled TARDIS/supercomputer/whatever had always been spectacular, even though Anthea was the only one to regularly witness them. Really, _he_'d only got to see Mummy once or twice and barely interacted with her!

"Well, she doesn't like you," Mycroft replied testily, "and frankly, neither do I. Not too much. So no, having you stay here is not an option, not in the long run. But considering who we are, I'm willing to help you blend in as I have done."

"You never actually told me how you did it," the Doctor said. "You obviously have a completely human physiology, so you _had_ to use a chameleon arch. That's the only way. But how comes that your memory is intact?"

Mycroft shrugged. "Why shouldn't it be?"

"Well, neither me nor the Master had any memories of our true selves after using the Arch," the Doctor replied.

Mycroft gave him one of those infuriatingly condescending smiles.

"Has it never occurred to you – either of you – that _that_ was the side effect of a faulty chameleon arch of an outdated TARDIS?" he asked. "What good would the best disguise do if you can't remember who you actually are?"

That made sense, so the Doctor chose _not_ to react to the slighting of his beloved timeship.

"So, des this mean that _your_ chameleon arch is still functioning?" he asked. "Can it do the same for me?"

"The core of my TARDIS is missing," Mycroft replied grimly, "and while most auxiliary systems are in the best working order, you know as well as I do that the chameleon arch is useless without Huon energy. You'll have to use yours – and accept the loss of memories for the time being. Until your TARDIS becomes functional again."

"Terrific!" the Doctor scowled. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Where am I to live?"

"I'm sure you'll find enough ex-companions in Britain who'd take you in as a boarder with open arms," Mycroft replied smoothly.

The Doctor was vaguely unsure about _that_. His recent companions didn't really have a reason to do so, and frankly, he'd lost track of anyone before his ninth incarnation for a long time. Perhaps it had been a mistake.

"Anthea can help you tracking them down," Mycroft continued, as if he'd know what the Doctor was thinking. Perhaps he did. He used to be the Watcher, after all, keeping tab on people, especially those of his own kind, was something he did by default. "And I'm going to help you with the paper trail."

"What paper trail?" the Doctor asked in understandable suspicion.

At least _he_ thought it was understandable. Other people might not agree; but other people didn't know Mycroft Holmes like he did.

"If you are to live here for a longer period, we'll need to create an ID for you," Mycroft explained with forced patience. "Unlike last time, you cannot count on UNIT backing you up. This time you'll need something waterproof, or you're going to draw a great deal of unwanted assistance. And believe me, after the events with the 456 the reaction wouldn't be a pleasant one."

That was very true indeed. The Doctor had experienced an alarming level of hostility to the mere idea of visiting aliens during his previous two incarnations. Being trapped on Earth while the population went through a new xenophobic phase did have its risks.

"Any ideas how we're supposed to do it?" he asked. Being dependent on Mycroft's help was something he hated very much, but in his current situation he couldn't be choosy.

Mycroft gave him one of those sickly smiles that always made his stomach churn. "Actually… yes. I'm going to adopt you."

~TBC~


	5. Part 05: Contingency Plans

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Yes, I know what's canonically happened to the Doctor's fob watch. I've changed it for a reason. AU, remember?

* * *

**Part 05 – Contingency Plans**

It didn't happen very often that the Doctor would stare at someone with open-mouthed shock. This was one of those rare occasions.

"You are going… _what_?"

Mycroft sighed impatiently. "Oh, come on, I know you've long mapped out my human background. Therefore you know all too well that the original Mycroft Holmes had a younger brother named Sherlock; a disturbed young genius no-one really knew how to deal with."

The Doctor raised a sarcastic eyebrow. "As far as I know Sherlock Holmes has been living in a very exclusive psychiatric institute ever since you've taken over his brother's place."

"That's not entirely correct," Mycroft replied calmly. "You should really pay more attention to the facts behind the paper trail, my dear Doctor. If you had, you'd know that Sherlock Holmes never really was in that hospital… well, not very long anyway. He committed suicide soon after his brother had fallen in war. He'd been nothing but a name and an account ever since."

"And now you've decided to resurrect him," the Doctor said; it wasn't really a question.

Mycroft nodded. "A most elegant solution, don't you agree? It will give you social status and money to secure your existence."

"But if the younger Holmes is supposed to have spent decades in a mental institute, does it not mean that his wealth is controlled by the family?" the Doctor inquired.

"Details," Mycroft waved dismissively. "We can change them: decades to a year or two, a mental illness to a severe drug problem. I've made myself younger on a regular basis and no-one has ever noticed. By now, consensus has reached a point where people think me the son of the original Mycroft; the records have been changed accordingly. We'll change the records of Sherlock Holmes, too, so that they'd match.

"That would still leave you in charge of my – _Sherlock's_ – wealth," the Doctor said, and Mycroft nodded amiably.

"Of course; for the next couple of years anyway. I find that most fortunate. It allows me to keep an eye on you."

The Doctor scowled at his fellow-Time-Lord-in-exile. "I _hate_ you!"

"Yes, I rather imagine you would," Mycroft replied with an elegant shrug. "Unfortunately for you, you also need me. And with your track record where disasters are concerned, I'm afraid I can't allow you to roam this planet unsupervised. Not even while you don't remember who you actually are."

"You have no right…" the Doctor began angrily, but Mycroft interrupted him mid-sentence.

"I have every right in the multiverse, my dear Doctor. I'm the Watcher, remember? Keeping rogues in their reins is what I _do_."

"You're as much a rogue as I am," the Doctor snapped.

Mycroft shook his head with a cold smile. "That's where you're wrong. I've _never_ been a rogue. I was sent through Time by the High Council itself to look out for rogues who used to frequent this planet too much. When I got trapped, after the Time War, I chose to become one of the people here, because this seemed the best way to protect them."

The Doctor snorted. "How could you protect them in human form? You've willingly laid down all your powers."

"But I still have my knowledge," Mycroft pointed out, "and I still have Mummy. Where I can't get access to her as a human, Anthea can. Together, we manage. Not perfectly, granted; the 456 disaster showed our limits with painful clearance. But still better than others who drop in, wreak havoc and then run away without picking up the pieces afterwards."

The Doctor briefly wondered whether Mycroft was hinting at the Master or at himself – or both.

"So yes," Mycroft continued, "I'm more than entitled to watch over you, whether you're himself or wearing a human disguise. And posing as your older brother will give me the means to do so."

"No need to gloat about it," the Doctor muttered angrily, because he had no other choice and he knew it.

The simplest medical examination could reveal his alien nature, and without a fully functional TARDIS backing him up he'd end up in some secret government lab, getting sliced and diced. Not even UNIT could be trusted anymore, and with Jack Harkness off-planet, no-one would come to his rescue.

_If_ Jack would be willing to rescue him to begin with. Their last encounter in a seedy bar on some far-away, backwater planet had been less than amiable. Jack still hadn't forgiven him for his absence during the 456 crisis. A crisis that resulted in the untimely death of his young lover.

It was so uncharacteristic for Jack! As a rule, he wouldn't stick with one partner, knowing that he'd lose them anyway sooner or later. They died and he lived on. So why this particular one? Once upon a time Jack Harkness had worshipped the ground the Doctor walked on. Why would he turn his back on him now, because of an utterly replaceable human being?

But that was neither here nor there. He had to deal with his current problem without burdening himself with Jack Harkness and his grievances. Besides, he wouldn't remember the man once the chameleon arch had done its thing, so it was a moot point anyway.

"All right," he said. "But I want to lead a useful life as a human… one that wouldn't be boring. Can you arrange that?"

"Mummy will do her best; and her best is usually more than adequate," Mycroft replied. "Now, about the technicalities: do you happen to have a pocket watch?"

The Doctor shook his head. His old fob watch, the one he'd used to hide from the Family of Blood, had long gone lost – he couldn't even remember when and where – and he never got the chance to acquire a new one. Gallifreyan fob watches with the special ability to store a Time Lord's biology and personality had become extremely rare since the destruction of the planet.

"Perhaps I can be of assistance, sir," a mellow voice with a soft Welsh accent said, and a young man in a sharp suit entered the study, with an old-fashioned pocket watch lying upon his open palm.

In the next moment an overwhelming feeling of _wrongness_ hit the Doctor like a brick wall.

~TBC~


	6. Part 06: Wrong

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Yep, I know the CoE fix-it is neither unique nor original. It wasn't my intention to come up with something that's never been done before. I just wanted Ianto back.

* * *

**Part 06 – Wrong**

The feeling was so strong that for a moment he could barely breathe. It was similar yet at the same time subtly different from what he used to feel around Jack Harkness… only that he'd grown _used_ to Jack's wrongness. With considerable effort, he could even ignore it.

_This,_ however, was something entirely new.

Giving the young man a good, hard look, the Doctor got the vague impression that he ought to know him from somewhere. He took another look, an even closer one, taking in the smooth, youthful face and the blue eyes that had that special _thousand-year-stare_, revealing that their owner had already seen too much in his young life.

The young man had a kind of bland smile plastered over his face used by shopkeepers or hotel receptionists mostly; usually when dealing with particularly bothersome clientele. But those blue eyes of his remained colder than the polar ice caps. They even mirrored some deep-rooted dismay as he looked at the Doctor.

"That's him?" he asked from Mycroft with a somewhat old-fashioned politeness. "The new him?"

Mycroft nodded. "That's him, yes. Have you found anything?" he then asked, seemingly out of context, but the young man appeared to understand him anyway.

"There are a few possibilities, sir, but not too many," he replied. "I've already filed my report."

"Mr. Jones is my librarian," Mycroft added by way of introduction.

"Archivist, sir, if you don't mind," the young man corrected for what must have been the umpteenth time if his eyeroll was any indication. "That's what I've been trained for, and I take great pride in my work, as you know."

"Semantics," Mycroft waved off the young man's protest loftily.

Still, the Doctor couldn't help being impressed. Few people could correct Mycroft Holmes and get away with it.

Strangely enough, that only increased the feeling of nagging familiarity that pierced even the nauseating wrongness that enveloped the young man.

"Do I know you?" he asked, frowning.

"You should," the young man replied with an indifferent shrug. "I'm not surprised that you won't remember, though. We never actually met; not in person. And the only time you saw me on a viewscreen, you were only interested in Gwen. If I remember correctly, you and that Rose person were babbling something about spatial genetic multiplicity. Cos, of course, Gwen-bloody-Cooper could be the only person of importance, as always."

The Doctor's eyebrows drew closer together. "You worked for Torchwood? _Jack's_ Torchwood? In Cardiff?"

"For both branches, actually," the young man answered coldly. "I'm the only Torchwood Archivist who survived Canary Wharf. _Then_ I worked for the Cardiff branch until our base got blown up by certain government agents who wanted to cover their dirty tracks that could have connected them to the 456 invasion."

He gave Mycroft a look that was positively glacial. The former Time Lord sighed.

"Ianto, I told you many times how sorry I am. For not knowing about the first contact with the 456 to begin with. For not even being in London when the whole mess got out of control. Dekker and his associates knew why they lured me away to the Arabian Desert with the false premise of a political crisis. They knew I wouldn't have let them get away with that abysmal plan of theirs."

The Doctor was only half-listening to Mycroft's excuses. He was staring at the young Welshman in genuine shock.

"You're _Ianto_? Ianto Jones? _Jack's_ Ianto? But that's impossible! Jack's Ianto died from the 456 virus!"

"I did," the young man replied blandly. "I'm better now."

"No!" the Doctor protested. "No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. You can't be! There can't be _two_ of you! It's _wrong_!"

"Yeah, I remember Jack mentioning something about _that_ to me," Ianto said coldly. "How it was your first reaction to him, after he'd waited almost two centuries for you, hoping that you'd help him… and that you couldn't start the TARDIS quickly enough to get away from him. Not even caring that he was still clinging to that stupid wooden box. So forgive me if I don't give a shit for your temporal sensitivities. He didn't _choose_ to become what he is, and neither did I. It… it happened; and you're a cold-hearted bastard."

"But it's impossible!" the Doctor argued. "When it happened to Jack, it was the TARDIS… and Rose, who opened the heart of the TARDIS, absorbed the Time Vortex…"

… and ever since then, Jack has been carrying a tiny spark of the Time Vortex inside him," Ianto cut in. "That enables him to give others from his life energy; to help them as long as they aren't beyond help yet – or to bring them back if he gets to them in time. Well, he _did_ get to me in time; in both cases. He's brought me back twice, and the second time it seems to have stuck."

"So, now you're a fixed point in time like Jack?" the Doctor asked doubtfully. "You feel… different. Still wrong, mind you, but in a different way."

"I'm flattered," Ianto replied with a look that could have frozen Hell over.

"We're not entirely sure about the ramifications; not yet," Mycroft intervened. "His resurrection isn't spontaneous like that of Captain Harkness. It took him days in the morgue of _St. Bart's_ to come back, and he was fortunate that we've got an… _associate_ there who helped him instead of stabbing him with a scalpel or calling MI5. We don't dare to test his abilities; his resurrection may be dependant on the life force of Captain Harkness. We simply don't know. So, until we flush out the whole conspiracy behind the 456 crisis, I found it better to keep him here where he's safe.

The Doctor nodded absently. What little he'd learned about the conspiracy gave Mycroft's actions a lot of sense.

"Does Jack know?" he then asked. "He's devastated by the loss… a shadow of himself."

"Unfortunately, Captain Harkness had already left planet when Ianto came back," Mycroft replied. "We're watching out for his eventual return, of course, but we have no means to contact him while he's off-world."

"What if he never returns?" the Doctor asked.

"He will, given enough time," Ianto said simply. "He's promised to come back; that he'll _always_ come back. He just needs to deal with he pain first. He didn't just lose me; he lost _everything_, including the only family he still had."

"You shouldn't trust his promises unconditionally," the Doctor warned. "He's not the sort of person to settle down."

If Ianto was insulted on Jack's behalf he gave no sign of it.

"He waited for _you_ a century and a half," he reminded the Doctor flatly. "Not _his_ fault that he did so in vain. Now, are you taking the bloody watch or not?"

"Language, Mr. Jones," Mycroft said quietly. Ianto just shrugged.

The Doctor gingerly picked up the watch from the young Welshman's palm and stared at the circular Gallifreyan symbols etched onto the surface of its lid in shocked surprise.

"But this is _my_ watch!" he exclaimed. "The old one I've already used once."

"Of course," Mycroft replied smugly. "New ones are hard to come by in these days, you know."

~TBC~


	7. Part 07: The Watch

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Brownie points for those who know the people Mycroft and Ianto are talking about. Well, aside from Mike Stamford, of course, who's kind of obvious.

* * *

**Chapter 07 – The Watch**

"How did you come to _my_ watch?" the Doctor demanded.

"He didn't; I did," Ianto said. "You never realized that Martha kept it, did you?"

The Doctor shook his head mutely.

"Well, she did. And when she left UNIT after the destruction of the Manhattan base and went off with Tom to work for _Physiciennes Sans Frontiers_ she left this in my custody… in case it should be needed again."

"But why would she leave it with you?" the Doctor wondered. "Why not with Jack?"

"Cos she knew I wouldn't get all sentimental and let you out at a whim," Ianto answered coldly. "If you use the chameleon arch, I'll see to it that you remain stored in that watch until the TARDIS is fully functioning again – so that we can kick your sorry arse off this planet for good. You've ruined enough lives at it is."

"Hey!" the Doctor protested angrily. "That's not true!"

"Isn't it?" Ianto returned with a terrifying smile. "Isn't the UK full of ex-companions who could never live a normal life after you got bored of them?"

The Doctor tuned to Mycroft for support because _that_ certainly wasn't true – most of his companions had left by choice, after all – but the ex-Time-Lord simply shrugged.

"Don't look at me; I happen to agree with him. You never cared for your ex-companions after you'd got rid of them – save for that little blonde tramp your tenth self managed to develop a very unhealthy and thoroughly inappropriate obsession with."

"Tosh always said something must have gone wrong with that regeneration," Ianto commented, and Mycroft's face softened considerably.

"Ah, Toshiko! She was something special, wasn't she? So bright, so loyal, so brave. It's a crying shame she had to die so soon. But she was right, you know. Absorbing the unleashed Time Vortex can get even a Time Lord mentally unhinged. And his tenth self certainly wasn't very stable."

"Stop talking about me as if I weren't here!" the Doctor snapped.

The other two gave him identical condescending smiles – quite a feat, actually, considering that one of them was a millennia-old ex-Time-Lord and the other one a no-longer-quite-mortal human being,

"So terribly sorry, my dear Doctor," Mycroft said with exaggerated – and entirely false – patience, "but I'm afraid you don't really have anything to say in this matter. _I was_ the one to pick up the pieces after you all the time; the one to try and fix the lives you'd upset or nearly destroyed through your ignorance."

"Why would you care," the Doctor shrugged. "It wasn't your business."

"Oh, but it was," Mycroft said. "You see, even though I've lived as a human for so long, I still am the Watcher. And I don't only watch out for my fellow Time Lords; I also keep an eye on the people they are – or were – associated with. Well, actually Mummy does, but that's irrelevant for the outcome."

"It's called responsibility," Ianto added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Something you used to preach a lot about to _other_ people but rarely practiced yourself."

"You really hate me so much?" the Doctor was mildly shocked. Humans usually went in awe of him, even if they sometimes got irritated with him and his ways.

Ianto gave him one of those bland, I'm-talking-to-an-idiot smiles that he'd usually reserved for annoying visitors of the now gone tourist office that had served as the cover shop of Torchwood Cardiff.

"You have no idea," was all he said.

"Besides," Mycroft interrupted smoothly, before things could have become _really_ ugly between the Doctor and Ianto, "by keeping in touch with your ex-companions we've got an intricate network of useful people, from Navy admirals through forensic pathologists to little old ladies with rooms to rent. With people who don't get shocked or surprised by, say, _weird_ things. You would be surprised by the contacts we have in the most unusual places."

"But since you won't remember anyway, it would be a moot point to tell you, so we shan't," Ianto added with deep satisfaction.

Then he turned to Mycroft. "Sir, Mummy and Anthea are already working on creating a waterproof background. I've taken the liberty to set up a list of records that will need to be… erm… fitted. I don't foresee any problems with integrating your 'brother' into society in general and the Holmes family in particular."

"He'll need a human associate, though," Mycroft said thoughtfully. "A friend of some sort who'd only know him as my somewhat… _problematic_ younger brother and who's reliable enough to count on him – or her – in the case of an emergency."

Ianto thought about it for a moment. "What about our contact at _St. Bart's_?" he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "That won't do. She's a dear, but she's known to have a soft point for odd, brilliant men. Romantic interests always cloud one's judgement."

"Well, Mike Stamford, then," Ianto suggested. "He works at _St. Bart's_, too, which would make keeping in touch a lot easier."

"Perhaps," Mycroft allowed, "but wouldn't that be a bit risky? Should he grow suspicious…"

"Why should he?" Ianto asked with a shrug. "His mother never told him about her travels with the Doctor before she'd choose to forget; and besides, they're so estranged they hadn't even spoke with each other in years. Neither does the old lady know who _you_ really are, does she?"

"No," Mycroft shook his head. "Neither does Admiral Jackson, for that matter. They both opted for a fresh start from the scratch and were given false memories about their association. It was their choice, and thy always seemed happy enough with it. All right, Mike Stamford it is. We'll have to give him a few memories of having known 'Sherlock' for a long time, though."

Ianto nodded, making notices I his hand-held PDA.

"Diffuse memories about sporadic childhood encounters would be the best," he suggested. "Nobody remembers clearly other kids he met cos their parents used to socialise. We'll give according memories to Mrs. Stamford and Admiral Jackson, too, just to back up the story; and to 'Sherlock', of course. It wouldn't do if he were the only one without a clue who these people are."

"Polly doesn't wear the name Stamford anymore, though," Mycroft reminded him.

Ianto smiled. "I know. But that's the name 'Sherlock' will remember her by," he pocketed his PDA. "I'll see into the background details, sir, leaving it to the two of you to deal with the TARDIS. Would you want some coffee in the meantime?"

"That would be most welcome, thank you," Mycroft replied.

"Black, two sugar," the Doctor said absent-mindedly at the same time, causing the other two to stare at him in surprise.

"But you _never_ drink coffee!" Mycroft finally said. "You were exclusively a tea person in all your lives!"

The Doctor shrugged a little sheepishly.

"Well, I no longer appear to be one," he said. "Perhaps it comes with being ginger, at last."

~TBC~


	8. Part 08: The Consulting Detective

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** We know the job wasn't actually created this way, but, well, in this context I hope I can get away with it. *g*

* * *

**Chapter 08 – The Consulting Detective**

Fifteen minutes later Ianto served them the best coffee one could get on planet Earth (and beyond), with custard cream biscuits, to the Doctor's delight who'd _loved_ custard cream in practically all his incarnations. Then he left the two Gallifreyans alone, so that they could work out the little details of the Doctor's upcoming stay on Earth.

"We need something where you can satisfy your natural curiosity and use your powers of deduction," Mycroft said. "Those are very useful traits and it would be a shame to neglect them. I've given this a great deal of thought, long before you'd even show up, but frankly, I'm at the end of my tether."

"Well, I used to work on Earth as a scientist before," the Doctor pointed out.

"Yes, but that was a long time ago, when UNIT knew exactly who and what you were and the Brigadier supported you," Mycroft replied. "You could only work as a scientist in your human disguise, but not even Mummy can create a decades-long scientific career out of thin air, not in these paranoid times. And your mind is too brilliant to start from the bottom as a lab rat. So, working scientist is out of the question, I'm afraid. A shame, really; you could have done a great deal of good in that area."

"I could work independently," the Doctor suggested, but Mycroft shook his head.

"We can't stomp a fully equipped lab out of the earth for you; less so considering your multiple and far-reaching interests. The income of the Holmes estate can carry a lot, but not _that_ much. Besides, there would be the lacking history problem again. Nobody would take your seriously without a long string of published articles and actual results. We can't fake _everything_. Although," he added as an afterthought, "I could probably plant you in the New Scotland Yard as a detective; or as a forensic scientist at _St. Bart's_."

"Boring," the Doctor interrupted. "I don't want a dull job, Mycroft, not even as a human. I want something _challenging_; something to occupy my mind. Solving crimes could be interesting, yes, but all that tedious paperwork… no, I can't be bothered with _that_. And forensic scientist… yes, figuring out what's happened and why and how, I'll like to do that very much, but not with some stupid ape interfering with my work."

"Well, I'm afraid that will be the case with any job you choose to pick up," Mycroft said. "Unless…"

The Doctor's ears literally perked up at that. "Unless _what_?" he asked eagerly.

Mycroft shrugged. "Unless you go into the detective business on your own."

"A private detective?" the Doctor shuddered. "Looking for lost pets and spying on cheating husbands or wives for a living? Oh, please, are you trying to kill me through boredom? The mere idea is most dreadfully dull!"

"I thought we could create evidence that the police have consulted you repeatedly in the past, whenever they couldn't solve a particularly complicated or… sensitive case," Mycroft said. "That would encourage them to do so again; and we can arrange for you to use the labs at _St. Bart's_, should you want to check the evidence for yourself."

"A _consulting_ detective, eh?" the Doctor mused. "That has a certain sound to it that I like. But what if someone wants to look up those old cases I've supposedly solved?"

"Oh, the cases _do_ actually exist," Mycroft coughed, a little embarrassed. "Sometimes I couldn't just sit and watch them struggle, and, well, provided them with the solution… under the name of my odd, brilliant brother who's a genius but, unfortunately, also something of a sociopath. A high-functioning one, for sure, but still a sociopath."

"You had a dead person solve their cases from out of a mental institute?" the Doctor asked in stunned disbelief.

Mycroft shrugged. "Well, I couldn't do it under my own name, could I? I'm supposed to be the mysterious power behind the throne; or rather behind the government. It would have ruined my air of mystery completely. In any case, the fact that none of them has ever met 'Sherlock' in person will serve our purposes nicely."

"How did you reach them, then?" the Doctor asked.

"Text messages," Mycroft replied curtly. "The fact that Mummy can hack into their network any time helped a lot, of course. We'll provide you with a special phone that can do the same; _and_ with a database that will prove helpful in your detective work. You'll believe that you were the one who'd set it up, as you'll no longer remember Mummy or _what_ she and Anthea really are."

"What kind of database?" the Doctor asked. "Old police cases?"

"That and much, much more," Mycroft replied. "You'll have instant access to up-to-date scientific research, online encyclopaedias, confidential personal files and the likes. All you'll have to do is to update the database regularly and you'll stay ahead of the police all the time. As you'll pose as my younger brother, nobody will be surprised that you can have access to things other people can't."

"That could work," the Doctor allowed, "but what if I fail without direct access to my TARDIS? I could ruin the reputation of 'Sherlock' you'd built up so carefully."

"Nonsense," Mycroft replied. "Even as a human your brain capacity will be high above the average. The chameleon arch only changes your biology, not your intelligence. Anthea will be watching your cases and feed your database with the facts you'll need. Your scientific mind and your observation skills will do the rest. You've always been bright, even by Gallifreyan measures; you'll do just fine."

For a while they fell silent, contemplating the profound changes that were to come.

"Why are you doing all this?" the Doctor finally asked. "You never liked me, and frankly, the sentiment has always been mutual. You thought I was a rogue and I still think you're a pompous, annoying, self-righteous and meddlesome arse. So why?"

"First and foremost, I'm the Watcher," Mycroft said. "It's also my duty to look out for stray Time Lords, in case they'd need help. And since there are only the two of us left – unless the Master is still lurking somewhere out there in human disguise – that means basically you."

"The Master is dead," the Doctor said. "I watched him die. He refused to regenerate, out of sheer spite, and died in my hands."

"You forget that he was a genius," Mycroft reminded him. "A mad genius, undoubtedly, but still a genius. If he wanted, he'd have found a way to preserve himself while he still held your TARDIS captive."

"His body was _dead_," the Doctor insisted. "And it got _cremated_. I know that for sure. I was _there_."

"Then let's hope that you're right," Mycroft said. "The last thing I'd want would be a criminal mastermind of his format on the loose. I've got enough problems of my own."

"It must be hard to be the British government," the Doctor deadpanned. "And MI5 at the same time. And the CIA as a freelancer."

"You have no idea," Mycroft replied without missing a beat. "Now, why don't you go and prepare your chameleon arch with Anthea's help – she has all the necessary data – while Ianto and I work on refining your human background?"

~TBC~


	9. Part 09: Becoming Sherlock

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This is as close to canon re: chameleon arch as research could bring me. Apologies if I'd got anything wrong. The only thing I changed was that by using a fully functional one a Time Lord could keep his memories. I needed that for Mycroft to be able to work as he does.

* * *

**Chapter 09 – Becoming Sherlock**

It took a couple of hours – not to mention an extensive data exchange between Mummy and the Doctor's TARDIS – but finally they were standing in the control room of said TARDIS, ready to begin. Ianto was holding the fob watch once again; Anthea was still correlating the last string of data, while the two Time Lords were looking up at the ceiling, from which some sort of helmet was descending.

Well, calling it a _helmet_ would have been somewhat exaggerated. The structure consisted of three short, wide, bent metal bands, made of some silvery material, which ended in flat, round disks of the same metal. There were buttons on its top, arranged in a seemingly random pattern.

"That is?" Ianto asked in slight disappointment. "This… _thing_ is going to rewrite every cell in your body to human?"

"Yep," the Doctor's exotic eyes, his only visibly alien feature, kept sliding to the device above his head as if he expected it to attack him any moment. "The chameleon arch. An amazing piece of Time Lord technology that can modify the biology of one species, so the cells register as another species. In essence, it allows the user to change their species, while their original biological information gets stored in a special device."

"You mean the fob watch," Ianto said. The Doctor nodded.

"Exactly. The watch itself is merely a disguise, of course, as it can't be opened once the transformation has been completed."

"Why?" Ianto asked. "What happens if you open it?"

"Then I'll revert to my true self," the Doctor explained. "Which is why it has a perception filter: to hide it from me, so that I wouldn't accidentally blow my cover. Seeing that you'll be the one to keep the watch, though, that's not very likely to happen," he shot Mycroft an annoyed look. "I thought you've explained it to him."

"He has," Ianto said before Mycroft could have answered, "but I wanted to hear it from _you_… knowing how much you like to repeat yourself."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" the Doctor scowled.

"Immensely," Ianto replied with a blank face. It was impossible to tell whether he truly meant it or not, but the Doctor would have bet that yes, he _did_. Very much so.

"You should get at it," Mycroft said before the verbal blows could have escalated. "Delaying it won't help with the… erm… unpleasant part, and you know it."

"You mean the transformation is painful?" Ianto asked, and there was a gleam in his eyes that both Time Lords found slightly disturbing.

"Oh yeah," Mycroft said with feeling. "It _hurts_. It hurts like a bitch; it changes us into something we were never meant to be, after all."

Ianto didn't seem to be impressed by that statement.

"Trust me sir, I know the feeling," he said dryly. "Coming back from the dead _once_ was bad enough. Imagine what it was like for Jack during the Master's reign – going through that several hundred times," he glared at the Doctor accusingly. "He stopped sleeping entirely for the next _year_! He couldn't deal with the nightmares… and where were you when he needed you?"

"Ianto," Mycroft said sharply, a clear warning in his voice. "Try to be a little more sympathetic, would you?"

That look, that tone would have made battle-hardened generals quake in their boots. Ianto merely shrugged.

"Why should I, sir? How sympathetic was _he_ to Jack's case?"

"That's neither here nor there, and you'd do better if you stopped dwelling over the past," Mycroft said sternly. "That won't help either of you; and you'll have to learn to tolerate each other. He'll live as my brother for quite some time; and I expect you to be at least civil with him. Especially as he won't remember the things you blame him for."

"Yes, sir," Ianto replied coldly. Mycroft sighed and shook his head.

"The two of you will be the death of mine. Give me that watch, Ianto."

Gritting his teeth, Ianto handed him the watch. Mycroft inserted it into the chameleon arch and pushed some buttons on the helmet.

"Programming complete," Anthea reported, consulting her Blackberry.

"All right," Mycroft said. "Let's do this, little brother. As they say on Raxacoricofallapatorius, the only way out is the way through. Come here."

He helped the Doctor to put the chameleon arch over his head, so that he three flat discs would connect with his temples and the centre of his forehead. Then he flicked the switch.

In the next moment, the Doctor let out a terrible, agonised scream. Mycroft winced in sympathy. He remembered all too well the horrible, burning sensation of every cell in his body being forcibly re-written. It had felt as if he'd been poured over with gasoline and set on fire; and if the twitching and writhing and howling of the Doctor was any indication, the side effects must have been similar.

It was extremely painful to watch the only other Time Lord known to exist give up his very being through excruciating agony. Especially as _he_ seemed to be the only one affected by the Doctor's suffering. Anthea had no emotions whatsoever – she had a programming – and though Ianto _had_ become stark white, his bleak expression revealed nothing.

Of course, the fact that he'd lived through the Battle of Canary Wharf probably had hardened him against such things. That, and having witnessed the hundreds of painful deaths of Jack Harkness, which the Master had broadcast all over the Earth during his reign. Hiding in the vaults of the Torchwood Hub, with its own time bubble – courtesy of the Rift – Ianto was one of the very few people who _remembered_… and still blamed the Doctor for what had happened, apparently.

Besides, the dead rarely had pity with the living.

Endless minutes passed with the Doctor shrieking and seizing in agony – and then, finally, it stopped.

"Is it over?" Ianto asked flatly. Mycroft nodded.

"You can remove the watch now. Just keep it safe. And closed; once it's opened, there will be no way to stop him reverting to his true self."

Ianto nodded in understanding and carefully plucked the watch from its socket atop the helmet. He ran his thumb over the etchings on the surface of the lid; the gossamer fine circular lines seemed to glow from within and the watch seemed heavier and warmer. He fastened it on its chain and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat. It was a strange thing, knowing that he was now the guardian of a Time Lord.

Mycroft, in the meantime, went to the Doctor to check on him.

"Sherlock?" he asked softy. "Can you hear me, brother?"

The Doctor – _Sherlock_ – stared blankly ahead for another second before those strangely luminous eyes of his rolled back and he collapsed, landing on his bony knees rather painfully. Fortunately for him, he couldn't feel it, having passed out already. The chameleon arch slid off, swinging above him in a pendulum. The lights within the TARDIS died, leaving only a faint golden glow coming from the central column.

"She's switched to emergency power," Anthea reported. She consulted her Blackberry again. "Transformation's complete, sir. Only one heartbeat; physiology reads one hundred per cent human."

"Good," Mycroft said. "Let's take him to his room. He needs rest; and the TARDIS must go into sleeping mode until she's needed again. Anthea, if you'd do the honours."

The android slid her arms under Sherlock's knees and back and scooped him up like a child, carrying him off to his temporary quarters. Having a titanium spine did have its advantages; none of the two men could have done this alone.

Following her, Ianto turned back from the door for a moment. His amazed look fell at a tall fridge where a moment earlier the TARDIS had stood.

~TBC~


	10. Part 10: A Favour for Mr Holmes

**The Adventures of a Consulting Time Lord**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Mike's background is my doing. Obviously. Brownie points to those who've guessed his Whoniverse connection.

* * *

**Chapter 10 – A Favour For Mr. Holmes**

Mike Stamford was content with his life; well, most of the time.

Teaching at _St. Bart's_, where he, too, had absolved his medical training, was satisfying, as a whole. Oh, he liked to joke about hating his students, but that wasn't exactly true. Yes, they did drive him to the verge of madness more often than not; but they were young, bright and mostly eager, so the truth was, he like them well enough. He was just careful _not_ to show it. That would have undermined his authority, and authority was already a precarious thing with today's youth.

Aside from the professional satisfaction, the job also paid well. He had a comfortable life, a lot of friends and occasionally even got to work with the girl he had a crush on – a sweet little thing in the morgue who, sadly, didn't return his feelings, but some things simply couldn't be helped.

He'd been lucky so far, and he knew it. Therefore he reacted with a sense of impending doom when on an otherwise bright and sunny day – and wasn't _that_ a rare pleasure in London? – the sleek black limousine stopped in front of the hospital. The door on the driver's side opened and out got a young man in a sharp suit, displaying the unreadable smile of a sphinx. A young man named Jones, the PA of Mr. Holmes.

Or _one_ of his PAs. The man with a somewhat nebulous job within the British government had several of those, each with a different task specially assigned to him or her, one stranger than the other. Mike could never figure out what they were actually doing for Mr. Holmes, and frankly, he didn't even _want_ to know.

Not that he'd dislike Jones; that would have been near impossible. Jones was eminently likeable with his impeccable manners, smart suits and quiet snark. He was relatively new, to Mike's knowledge, yet he could make the impression as if he'd always been part of Mr. Holmes' staff and seemed to know _everything_ due to his photographic memory.

Plus he brewed the best coffee on the planet, and like every doctor, Mike appreciated _that_ very much.

So there was nothing wrong with Jones as a _person_. But his appearance – granted, a fairly rare occasion – usually meant that Mr. Holmes wanted something. And considering that Mike owed his career a scholarship founded by the Holmeses and his current job to the patronage of Mr. Holmes himself, saying _no_ to whatever Mr. Holmes might want wasn't really an option.

Especially in the light of the fact that Mr. Holmes _was_ the British government, more or less.

Not that the man would ask for impossible or even illegal things. Usually, he wanted information that he'd get in other ways, too; it was just faster to get them through Mike. Sometimes he asked for Mike's professional opinion as a doctor – mostly related to his younger brother's drug addiction, a shameful but not too well-kept secret of the family. And sometimes, which was downright frightening, he just seemed to want to _chat_.

At such times Mike almost hated him. One didn't just _chat_ with the British government. Not without being scared shitless, at least, and Mike hated being scared. He was a simply, friendly guy who wanted a quiet life. Having tea – well, _coffee_ since the arrival of the impeccable Mr. Jones – with the British government wasn't his idea of a quiet life.

For a brief, futile moment he considered running and hiding, but the realistic half of his mind had already calculated the chance of _that_; which was somewhere between zero and nothing. So he sighed in defeat and waited patiently for Mr. Holmes' PA/ninja butler/coffee god/whatever to catch up with him. He even plastered a fake smile across his face; after all, Jones was a pleasant-mannered guy, too.

"Mr. Jones," he said as they shook hands. "It's an unexpected pleasure."

Jones' smile broadened at that, actually reaching his eyes – another rare phenomenon.

"With emphasis on the _unexpected_, I'm sure," he replied, his lilting voice full of understanding.

Which was another reason why Mike liked him. He was so much more personable than that intimidating woman… Althea, Andrea, Athena, or whatever her name was. As pretty as she might be, she was definitely creepy, glued to that Blackberry device all the time.

"I'm sorry to interrupt your daily routine, Dr. Stamford," Jones continued, "but Mr. Holmes would like to speak with you. In private."

Mike gave the limousine a meaningful look. "Yeah, I've figured that much. The sings are hard to ignore."

Jones shrugged apologetically. "Well, he does have a hang for the dramatic," he admitted, "but he's also a very busy man. And since his family practically owns _St. Bart's_… he shrugged again and opened the door for Mike. "Please get in, Dr. Stamford."

He then walked around the limousine to take the driver's seat again; a clear sign that whatever Mr. Holmes wanted was confidential. Otherwise he'd have brought his usual driver.

The powerful man himself was elegantly sprawled on the back seat, wearing a Gieves and Hawkes tailored three piece suit in charcoal grey, which matched the upholstery of the limousine seamlessly, the inevitable umbrella placed firmly between his knees. He looked supremely elegant and just a touch sinister.

His entire appearance made Mike feel hopelessly plebeian and vaguely inadequate. He hated the feeling. For his standing, he counted as moderately well clad, but, of course, he could never compare himself with a Holmes. Or with the personal staff of a Holmes, for that matter.

Mr. Holmes greeted him with an aristocratic nod. "Dr. Stamford, how good of you to join us."

_As if I had a choice_, Mike thought morosely. He hated what he called being kidnapped in the middle of the street. The faint smile playing around the older man's lips revealed that Mr. Holmes had an inkling of what he was thinking.

"Look, Mr. Holmes," he said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than intended, but he _was_ nervous, he couldn't help it. "Why don't we cut the niceties and go where you just tell me what do you want from me this time?"

It came out rather rude, he realised with a jolt, but Mr. Holmes didn't seem to mind.

"What I want – no, what I _need_ from you, my dear doctor, is a favour," he replied. "A personal favour, in fact, and not a small one. I assume you do remember my little brother?"

Mike nodded. He did have vague memories of a precocious child, all knees and elbows, with a mass of ginger curls covering his head and with almost frighteningly intense, near-colourless grey eyes. He also knew that the younger Holmes had a recurring cocaine problem and had already had several therapies (all in very expensive clinics) behind him. Hadn't he been in one of those clinics for the last two years or so?

"Well, he seems to have recovered from his most recent relapse surprisingly well and has moved back to London," Mr. Holmes continued. The police have agreed to work more directly with him in the future…"

_Of course they have. The police wouldn't want to get on the bad side of the government_, Mike thought cynically. Besides, the younger Holmes was fabled for his brilliant deductions that had already solved the one or other mysterious crime, despite his often questionable condition.

"…and I have arranged for him to use the labs at _St. Bart's_ for his forensic experiments," Mr. Holmes went on. Again, nothing surprising in _that_.

"What do you want from _me _then?" Mike asked. "It seems you've got everything covered."

"He doesn't work well alone," Mr. Holmes admitted with a sigh. "I need you to be his assistant if he needs one; his friend if he lets you. Otherwise, just keep an eye on him for me."

"I thought that's what surveillance systems are for," Mike said. He didn't like the idea of spying on somebody; especially not on a Holmes. They were unpredictable at best.

Mr. Holmes nodded. "And we intend to put _those _to good use, of course. However, he can't turn to a CCTV camera for help if he needs it. I want him to be able to turn to you, Dr. Stamford. He's not one to make friends easy, and he can be very irritating, more often than not. I need someone who'd be patient with him, no matter what."

Mike understood. He was a good-natured guy with endless patience – that he hadn't murdered any of his students yet proved that – therefore he was probably the best choice to work with the young Holmes until he got used to have people around him again.

"I'll do what I can, Mr. Holmes," he promised.

"Excellent," Mr. Holmes knocked the handle of his umbrella on the plastic shield that separated the driver from the passengers. "Ianto, I think this is where Dr. Stamford will get off," he offered Mike one of those elusive smiles. "It _is _your street, isn't it?"

~TBC~


	11. Part 11: The Awakening

**Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**By Soledad**

******Episode 01: Ginger, At Last! (But Still Rude)**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Yes, I know the idea is far-fetched. But I needed a halfways convincing idea why Thirteen/Sherlock would still be an addict. Sorry.

* * *

**Chapter 11 – The Awakening**

He came to with what felt like the mother of all headaches; as if the worst hangover of his life, the peak of cocaine cold turkey and extreme nicotine cravings had been rolled and bundled into one neat package. His mouth was dry, his vision blurred and he felt like throwing up – only that his stomach was empty.

He didn't really feel like filling it ever again, either.

He could hear muted voices talking somewhere far-away, like through a thick layer of voice. The cultured, accentuated, pretentious droning of his brother. The sharp, precise words spoken in a surprisingly soft female voice – his brother's sexy secretary with the brains of the size of a small planet. And the lilting Welsh tones produced by Mycroft's ninja butler, that annoying little sycophant, who – surprisingly enough – actually had the balls to stand up to Mycroft sometimes.

What were they doing here? Or, he corrected himself after stealing a look at his surroundings, what was _he_ doing here? He was obviously back in his old room, at the Holmes estate, although last time he checked he was in London, having a row with his depressingly stupid landlord.

How did he get here?

A face swam into his field of vision: pale skin, dark eyes, thin lips pressed together, an aquiline nose wrinkled in vague disgust... his brother.

"Sherlock?" that pedantic voice _almost_ sounded worried. "Can you hear me? Do you know who I am?"

He snorted, amused despite the blinding headache.

"Of course I know who you are, don't be ridiculous, Mycroft! I seriously doubt that there's another human being on this planet who'd be half as pompous and annoying as you are."

"Well," the lilting Welsh voice said somewhere outside his field of vision. "He seems to be all right, sir… and supremely himself."

"Yes, it appears so, doesn't it?" Mycroft answered in a pained tone. "He rarely gets drunk, but if he does he's even more belligerent and unpleasant than usual."

"I got drunk?" that would explain the headache, he supposed. Hangover was a bitch; which was the reason he avoided heavy drinking whenever he could. "Why?"

"You ran out of nicotine patches," Mycroft replied simply. "You know what you're like without them, especially since you gave up on your other… recreational activities. You ran out to get new ones, discovered an unexpected lead to one of the cold cases you've been working on for Detective Inspector Lestrade for quite some time, followed him to a pub, got drunk, got in a fight… the next thing I knew was I got a call from the police to collect you. Which Mr. Jones did for me."

Well, that explained why he would hurt in places he didn't even remember to exist. Must have been quite the fight.

"Oh, and your landlord called," Mycroft added. "He told me in no uncertain terms that he'd had enough of your disgusting experiments and you wrecking the flat whenever you got bored, not to mention the frequent drug busts. He'd packed all your stuff in cardboard boxes and placed them in front of the door, the locks of which have been changed since then. Mr. Jones kindly fetched the boxes for you less than an hour ago."

"Oh, the good old Jeeves," he sneered. "Always so helpful. Always so reliable."

"Someone has to be," the butler replied with a bland smile. "And the name is _Jones_, sir. Ianto Jones."

"Whatever," he waved impatiently. "Who cares? So does it mean that I haven't got a place to live now? I seriously hope you don't expect me to stay with you, Mycroft!"

"You can have the guest room in the London house – until you've found something suitable," Mycroft replied. "It's a temporary solution, or so I hope, for the sake of our mutual sanity. But I won't have any of your questionable experiments in the house. Not even temporarily."

"Terrific!" he scowled. "How am I supposed to work then? I _need_ to prove my theories, or I won't be of any use for our highly incompetent police force; and then the criminal classes will undoubtedly take over the country within the week."

"I've made arrangements for you," Mycroft told him. "You'll be allowed to use the labs at _St. Bartholomew's Hospital_ – as long as you don't wreck them in any way. Dr. Stamford will have your own set of keys by the day after tomorrow."

"Stamford?" he furrowed, trying to remember, but all his memory could come up was the vague image of a chubby little boy with glasses. He used to visit the estate with his mother sometimes. "You mean _Mike_ Stamford? He's at _Bart's_ now?"

"He's been since graduation," Mycroft sighed. "Really, brother dear, you should keep better tab on your friends."

He gave his brother a cold look. "I don't have friends."

"Yeah, one wonders why," the butler muttered.

"Oh, shut up, Jeeves, it isn't your concern!" he snapped in annoyance.

"Jones," the young Welshman corrected with an eyeroll; but he didn't seem particularly insulted. One could have snapped at a brick wall and got the same reaction.

"Don't annoy Mr. Jones, Sherlock," Mycroft warned, "unless you want to live on decaf for the next month or so."

"I don't care!" he declared angrily. "Just leave me bloody alone, all of you!" and with a huff, he turned his back on them and pulled the duvet over his still aching head.

"Yes, I think at the moment that would be the wisest course of action," he heard his brother's voice; then the retreating footsteps and the closing of the door.

Good. He didn't need any of them. He didn't need _anyone_, period. He was perfectly fine on his own.

* * *

"Was it really necessary, sir?" Ianto asked when they'd returned to Mycroft's study. "Making him an addict, I mean."

Mycroft sighed. "Unfortunately, yes. Even in human disguise, the brain of a Time Lord needs certain complicated chemicals to function properly. Chemicals that it can't produce without stimulants. Nicotine – and, sadly, also cocaine – _are_ such stimulants, and while we'll try to keep him away from the latter, we'll have to allow him some indulgence in the former, to keep his brain chemically balanced."

"Martha didn't say anything about such things from the last time he was human," Ianto frowned.

"Last time he was human for a couple of months only," Mycroft explained. "These are long-term effects. They only emerge if we spend _years_ in a human form. Most unpleasant effects, I must admit."

"I see," Ianto said after a lengthy pause. "Does this explain _your_ smoking habit, sir?"

Mycroft gave him a sickly smile. "I always knew you were brilliant, Ianto. Yes, it does."

"Well, sir, in that case we'll have to see that there are nicotine patches available all the time," Ianto added the new item to his mental inventory list. "Coffee?" he then asked.

"Dying for," his boss replied, and life returned to its normal routine.

Or what counted as _normal_ for the Holmes household anyway.

~TBC~


	12. Part 12: The Police

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** The case Lestrade & Co. are working on is _very_ loosely based on the classic ACD story "The Resident Patient". Also, Donovan and Anderson are as they appeared in the original "Sherlock" pilot: Sally as a uniformed cop and Anderson with beard and glasses. What can I say? I liked his beard and glasses.

* * *

**Part 12 – The Police**

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was beyond frustrated. His team of dedicated professionals had been working on this bizarre case for weeks but they didn't seem to make any headway at all. Three suicides in a fortnight. Three people had hanged themselves in their respective closed rooms, and while the individual cases appeared simple enough, there was something decidedly fishy about the whole thing.

His gut told him so much; even if his mind insisted that he was imagining things.

Those three people had no apparent reason to kill themselves. They'd all been reasonably healthy and didn't seem to have any financial problems, if their living conditions were any indication… well, save this last one. Plus, neither of them had left a note, which was unusual. As clichéd as it sounded, people _loved_ to leave a note, for some reason. Statistically, at least two of those three should have left one. And yet there had been none.

The chilly, wet October weather did nothing to lift the Detective Inspector's mood. Through the half-drawn blinds of the victim's bleak little living room he could see the rain falling slowly, steadily, making the asphalt shine with the reflected light of the street lanterns. It was a singularly unpleasant evening as only London weather could make it, discouraging the inhabitants of Baker Street to leave their houses… unless something truly exciting happened.

Well, a hanged man in a closed room seemed exciting enough to attract a small crowd of gaffers that elbowed each other out of the way in their attempt to get closer and probably catch a glimpse of… _something_. Not that _that_ chance would ever come. Sergeant Donovan, on the verge of her promotion to plain-clothes detective, which would finally spare her such mundane duties, was patrolling the police tape, keeping everyone out of the crime scene.

Anyone who'd try to get by her would be taught to think again within moments. Sally Donovan wasn't a woman who let people get away with _anything_.

The water was flowing in rivulets down that ridiculous yellow jacket she was forced to wear for her own safety. She endured it stoically. Once her promotion had gone through the mills of bureaucracy, which was only a matter of weeks now, she'd be able to discard the unflattering uniform and wear sensible clothes again.

Lestrade smiled fondly. If anyone, Donovan had more than deserved a promotion. She was sharp, hard working and stubborn like a mule, even if a little abrasive; never took anything for face value. She'd make an excellent detective one day – with a bit more experience and diplomacy.

His thoughts were interrupted by Anderson, their forensics expert, coming from the victim's bedroom, wearing one of those paper coveralls SOCO always would at a crime scene. For a moment, Lestrade was distracted by the man's recently-grow beard that looked bizarrely fake, despite the fact that it was the genuine item, and the ugly, horn-rimmed glasses Anderson was currently wearing.

Lost one of his contact lenses again, presumably.

"Does the scene match the previous two?" Lestrade asked, and Anderson nodded.

"I suppose we can say that," he allowed reluctantly. "The door was locked from within. No marks on the body – at least none that would suggest the contribution of another person to his demise – and no identification."

"Same as the others then," Lestrade summarized sourly. "Exactly the same. Have you learned anything from the neighbours?"

Anderson shook his head. "Not much. The flat is owned by an elderly widow by the name of Mrs. Dorothea Hudson. She owns two flats in this row; and while she generally has boarders in 221B – though not at the moment – this was the first time she'd managed to rent out 221C… which is not really surprising," he added, looking around in the bleak, dank, barely furnished flat in disgust."

"And she won't be able to do so again for a while," Lestrade said. "While most people like murder mysteries, few of them would want to rent a place where somebody's killed himself."

"I think the place alone would achieve that," Anderson muttered. "Who the hell would want to live in a damp basement?"

Lestrade ignored him. "What could the old lady say about her boarder?" he asked instead.

Anderson shrugged. "Sally spoke to her. You know, the female touch and al that. She's much better with witnesses. 'Specially with old women."

Lestrade suppressed a sigh. The on/off affair of Anderson and Donovan was a well enough kept secret at the New Scotland Yard – he supposed that nobody else knew about it – but that didn't mean that he, as a family man, would condone it. He felt sorry for Anderson's wife, a small, bird-like woman, always on some cure or another due to her generally weak health; and besides, he always thought Donovan could have done better.

He went to the open window and yelled out into the rain. "Donovan! Get up here at once!"

To her credit, Donovan was up in record time. She even produced her small notebook without being asked. She was an old-fashioned one who'd still take hand-written notes.

"Mrs. Hudson says the victim has rented 221C less than three weeks ago," she began to read in a crisp, professional voice. "He said he was a Russian and needed a cheap place to stay while his elderly father was under medical treatment, which apparently ate all their money. He spoke English fluently, but with a slight lisp. Mrs. Hudson couldn't tell if his accent was a genuine Russian one or faked, but she admitted that she wasn't very good at recognising accents. Other than that, the young man was rarely at home, which he explained with the need of staying at his father's side in _King's College Hospital_ as much as possible. He also generally avoided any contact with his landlady _or_ the lodgers in 221B… well, as long as there were any."

"Hum," Lestrade mulled over the rather sparse amount of data. "Did she tell you the victim's name? He must have filled out a rental contract."

"That she did," Donovan said with a wry smile. "Apparently, the young man was called Illya Kuryakin."

"And that," Lestrade declared triumphantly, "Is most certainly a lie."

Anderson, who never watched the telly – hadn't done so even as a child – looked at the Detective Inspector in confusion. "How can you be so sure about that?"

"Because Illya Kuryakin doesn't exist," Lestrade explained. "You're probably too young to remember, but that was the name of one of the leads in a 1960s TV-series about two spies," he looked at Donovan. "It surprises me that _you_'d know, honestly."

"My aunt was a die-hard _Man For UNCLE_-fan," Donovan replied, grinning. "Used to have a mad crush on Illya, too. I think I've watched every single episode at least twice while she was babysitting me."

"There were worse programmes," Lestrade shrugged. "In any case, we now have the proof that something doesn't add up with these suicides," he took out his phone and hit SpeedDial #5.

Anderson gave him a reproachful look. "You're not phoning _him_, are you?" he demanded. "Because we can handle this. We can _absolutely_ handle it."

Lestrade was in no mood to argue with him. "You've got your work to do, right? Then do it, and let _me _do mine," he only got the mailbox, of course; not that he'd expect anything else. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Please call me when you get this. We're gonna need you."

"_Need_ him?" Anderson scoffed. "What for? That bloody freak doesn't even show his face around a crime scene – just keeps sending you idiotic text messages."

"Messages that tend to supply us with the necessary clues to solve our cases," Lestrade replied. "Besides, I've got the feeling that this time he's gonna make an exception. Seal the crime scene when you're done here, and send the body to _St. Bart's_. He might want to see both."

Anderson didn't deign him with an answer; just turned around in demonstrative disgust and went to continue his investigation in the victim's bedroom.

~TBC~


	13. Part 13: Encounter at Bart's

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Again, there's some creative use of Classic!Who characters – not all of it canon. I use them as they fit this particular AU, all right? ;))

* * *

**Part 13 – Encounter at **_**Bart's**_

As usual, forensic pathologist Molly Hooper arrived to work early. She liked the silent calm of the morgue before anyone else would arrive. Others might find her preferences morbid, but Molly was a shy and introspective soul. She felt overwhelmed and even a little intimidated by the fast pace and general loudness of modern life.

The morgue was her perfect place to hide from that. Even her colleagues at _Bart's_ avoided going there if they could. Sometimes she thought her late birth had been a temporal glitch; that she should have been born at least a century earlier.

Due to her solitary nature, she didn't socialise much with her colleagues, Mike Stamford being the only exception. Good old Mike, with his eternal struggle to secure enough research time for himself between juggling teaching with research and with his tiny little private praxis at 403 Brook Street that he'd only started a year or so ago.

Dear old Mike with that child-like crush on her.

Sometimes she felt just a little guilty for not being able to return Mike's feelings. He was such a nice bloke, really: always willing to help whatever might have come up, always ready with a compliment to boost her low self-confidence. But she couldn't help herself. Mike just wasn't the kind of man that would quicken her pulse.

She liked her men tall, dark and mysterious.

She readily admitted being a hopeless romantic. It was all Gran Victoria's fault, really. _Maman_, as she'd been called by her numerous children and grandchildren, used to read fantastic tales to her little ones from an old, hand-written book with ink-drawn illustrations that had looked very much like a diary. Tales about a strange, Chaplinesque man travelling in a blue police box through space and time, accompanied by a young Scottish warrior from the eighteenth century and a Victorian girl who tended to scream a lot.

Tales about their encounters with awesome creatures, both on Earth and on other planets, most of them not even human and some oft hem downright frightening.

The tales had all been written in first person. Just like a diary, really, and they had a certain Victorian flair in style. Molly often wondered who the author might have been and what had become of the book after _Maman_'s death some six or seven years ago. Had it been discharged with the rest of her stuff or had someone taken it as a reminder of a happy childhood?

She shook her head in melancholy. She missed _Maman_ more than anyone else. More even than her father who'd perished at Canary Wharf, although the two of them had always had a very close, loving relationship. Her father had been the one to wake her interest in forensics, and here she was, still doing it – and at _Bart's_, no less! Dad would be pleased.

Well, it was time to stop remembering and start working. She put on a fresh lab coat and switched on her computer to see which new cases would call for her attention. If there was any urgent murder case or if she could finally start on those mysterious suicides that had been waiting for their torn for a fortnight or for a week, respectively.

Her eyes widened as she was reading the data of a new suicide the victim of which had been brought in last night. _Another one?_ Caucasian male, approximately thirty to thirty-five years, six feet two tall, weight approximately a hundred or ninety pounds, dark hair, dark eyes, pale complexion, high muscle density – this bloke had to be a Hercules while still alive!

She scrolled down for the personal facts and couldn't believe her eyes. Supposed name… _Illya Kuryakin_? Was this somebody's idea of a stupid joke?

"Apparently so," a deep baritone voice said from the open door, making her realise that she'd been talking loudly to herself. Again. How embarrassing.

"That, or a spectacularly idiotic attempt of making people believe he was a Russian while, in truth, he was obviously _not_," the beautiful voice continued, speaking faster and faster with practically every new word. "No surprise here; most people _are_ idiots. Now, can you tell me something about the manner of this man's death?"

Molly blinked, trying to follow the rapid-fire speech of he unknown man who now strode into her autopsy room confidently, as if he owned the place, with Mike Stamford hovering behind him, wearing a white lab coat and an amused expression.

The man was very tall, whipcord thin, probably in his mid-thirties, with a pale, patrician face of angular features, an unruly mass of ginger curls covering his sleek head and the most amazing eyes she'd ever seen. They were large, slightly slanted under the wide arch of dark eyebrows, and of a strangely luminous grey-green.

Molly was hypnotised by them, like a little bird by the unblinking glare of a snake. She could feel her cheeks warming in embarrassment, and she knew she was probably beet red by now. She was also getting a little angry.

"Who are you and what are you doing in my morgue?" she demanded when she found her voice again.

The man rolled those incredible eyes. "Oh, c'mon on, how would it be _your_ morgue? Unless you own the hospital, which I'm sure you don't – based on your clothes, all simple mass production, purchased in one of the common warehouses, most likely _Marks & Spencer_ if I'm not mistaken, which I rarely am – this is still the morgue of _Bart's_ and you're merely an employee, so you've got no claim on this place."

"Sherlock!" Mike interrupted while Molly just stood there, completely flabbergasted, not quite sure whether she should be amazed or insulted. "_Breathe!_ Don't take it personally, love," he added for molly. "He's like that to everyone. Which probably explains his extreme lack of popularity with the police… well, actually with almost everyone."

"I don't aspire to win popularity points with idiots," the man scoffed. "Now, would you get over the formalities so that we could finally get on with the Work?"

For some reason Molly had the weird feeling that "work" had been really meant with a capital W.

"Oh, all right," Mike replied with a long-suffering sigh; then he made a vague gesture in the man's direction. "Molly, love, this is Sherlock Holmes. He works with the police on the suicide case as a consultant and has been given permission to use the labs here for his experiments. Sherlock, meet Molly Harper; she's our best forensic pathologists here."

"Charmed," the man – _Sherlock_ – said impatiently, his tone making painfully clear that he was not the _least _charmed by a little grey mouse like Molly, and why should he? With his devastating good looks he was probably highly sought after by the ladies of high society and his tailored suit spoke of wealth; a lot of it. Hadn't the Homes estate provided the great majority of the funds that had been necessary to save _Bart's_, back in 2006?

"Now, if we could perhaps drop the social niceties and do what's important, we might even achieve some results," Sherlock continued. As Molly was still more than a little stunned, he sighed impatiently. "When has competence become such a rare thing in this country?"

"Sherlock, you wouldn't even _recognise_ social niceties if they hit you upside the head," Mike said tolerantly; for some reason he appeared to like this odd, arrogant man. "Well, I've got students to torture, so I'll leave you to your _competent_ work. Play nice, kids."

And with that he left indeed, and Molly found herself alone with the man that would profoundly change her life. She just had no way to know yet _how_ profoundly.

~TBC~


	14. Part 14: The Landlady

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Mrs Hudson's Whoniverse identity might be revealed later. Until then, you're free to guess. *g* Also, in the unaired pilot the bar is genuinely called "Mrs Hudson's Snack and Sarnies". I kid you not! It only became "Speedy's" in the final version.

* * *

**Part 14 – The Landlady**

Mrs. Dorothea Hudson was slowly getting desperate. Buying 221 Baker Street hadn't turned out quite the old age insurance she'd thought it would. Why, it had only been three weeks since she'd managed to get rid of that _very_ unpleasant young man with the unacceptable smoking and drinking habits… not to mention his lady friend who tried to run her own questionable business (of carnal nature) from the same flat.

_Her_ flat, the one into which she'd put so much work and love to make it a good home for someone who would deserve it.

Sometimes she _really_ envied Mrs Turner and her married ones next door. Sure, in her youth you wouldn't even _think_ of two gentlemen getting legally married, but at least Mrs. Turner's boys were polite, mild-mannered and very, _very_ fastidious.

Polly had always been better at making the right choices.

And then there was the dreadful business with pour young Mr. Kuryakin killing himself in 221C. The first time she'd managed to rent out that horrible flat, and it only lasted a couple of weeks. Now it would remain empty for good, she feared. It wasn't very appealing to begin with, and knowing that a man had been hanged in it would frighten all potential lodgers away.

Oh, this was such a mess! Ever since she'd had to give up her little business, the sandwich bar on the ground level, due to her arthritic hip, things seemed to be worsening steadily. The large sign advertising _Mrs Hudson's Snack and Sarnies_ was still up above the entrance, but the new owner was already busy at redecorating and modernising the place.

Her heart clenched every time she looked at it. Giving up the bar had been hard, but she'd had no other choice. She might still be able to cook for herself or bake the one or other tin of biscuits whenever she invited Mrs. Turner for tea, but running a bar on her own, even if such a small one, was out of the question. She could call herself fortunate that the bloody hip didn't bother her more; she'd learned to live with he moderate pain, and her herbal soothers worked well enough.

But giving up the bar meant another cut into her modest income, and with both flats currently standing empty she feared that she'd be forced to use up her savings (such as they were in these times) to help her over the period of financial draught.

Really, ever since she'd made the mistake of marrying that horrible man and following him to the States, things had been on a downward spiral for her. Her first husband, a journalist, had lived for his work and died due to crossing the wrong people (she had no idea what UNIT was and why her James had wanted to investigate them, and frankly, she didn't care), but at least he'd been a decent chap.

The second one, though… she shivered from the memory of having married such a monster. How could she have been such a fool, to fall for Francis Cleary's compliments and promises? How could she not realise that he'd been insane? Had she not been so lonely after dear James's death…

She couldn't understand Mrs. Turner, she really couldn't. The woman used to have a decent husband, one that even her posh family had found suitable, and yet she'd left him for her old lover, that uncouth sailor! All right, granted, her sailor had proven quite the social climber, becoming an Admiral and whatnot, but he was still a Cockney who'd grown up near a brewery. He was not the right match for the daughter of a name-worthy scientist, who'd grown up in a big, old mansion in the countryside.

And yet Mrs. Turner would even become estranged from her only son over this relationship. It was silly and irresponsible, really. It clearly showed that Mrs. Turner had no idea what loneliness truly was.

Mrs. Hudson always regretted not having any children. With dear James, they had wanted to wait. Until he'd make a name for himself. Until he'd have a steady job, instead of working freelance. Until it was too late.

With her second husband, she figured out soon enough what kind of man she'd married and dreaded the thought of bringing a copy of him into the world. Thank goodness, _he_ didn't want any children; otherwise he might have forced her.

Fortunately, he'd been caught and sentenced to death in Florida some ten years ago. And what was even more fortunate, Mr. Holmes had used his connections to ensure that he would be in fact executed, despite his elusive insanity, so that she could return to England. To London, which had always been her only true home.

As she had been proven innocent in her second husband's hideous crimes, she could keep her part of their funds (in which, again, she suspected Mr. Holmes's influence), but those funds were small and the future uncertain.

She wiped her eyes and was about to turn away from the window and put on the kettle for her much-needed afternoon tea when she spotted somebody approaching her house. It was a tall, dark-haired young man in an expensive, three-piece pinstriped suit. An elegant black car – presumably the one in which he'd come – was parked right in front of the house. He went directly to the door of 221B and rang the bell.

Her hopes renewed, Mrs. Hudson hurried down to answer the door and was pleased to get a closer look of that smooth, almost child-like face. That button nose was particularly cute, she found. Only the calm, blue-grey eyes didn't match the rest of the picture. They were too old and careworn to belong in such a youthful face; as if the visitor had already seen too much in his young life.

"Mrs. Dorothea Hudson?" he asked in a mellow voice that had a distinctive Welsh lilt to it. She nodded.

"That I am. What can I do for you, Mr…" she trailed off expectantly, and he caught her drift at once.

"The name is Jones, Mrs. Hudson," he supplied. "Ianto Jones."

"You're Welsh, aren't you?" Mrs. Hudson was warming to him immediately. Such a nice, well-groomed boy he was, with such pleasant manners, it would be a delight to have him around. "Are you interested in renting one of the flats, then?"

Ianto Jones smiled, and that made Mrs. Hudson's heart melt in her chest just a little. She wished she had a son like him.

"In a manner, yes," he replied apologetically. "Not for myself, though."

"Oh!" her heart dropped in disappointment. He must have realised it, because he gave her another one of those slow, sly smiles.

"Actually, I'm here on behalf of Mr. Holmes," he explained. "I work for him; and he'd like you to take his younger brother as a boarder. He's willing to supply part of the rent, as Sherlock hasn't got full access to his funds yet."

"Oh, of course I'll take him!" her mood brightened again, remembering the strange, brilliant young man who'd helped her in the deepest crisis of her life. "I'll even make him a good price. I owe that boy so much! I no for him, I'd never been freed from that terrible husband of mine."

"It won't be easy, though," Ianto warned her. "He's a most eccentric person of decidedly odd habits, of which playing the violin in the oddest hours of the night is just the most harmless one. _And_ Mr. Holmes would require to be informed in the moment his brother might have a relapse into his drug using habit."

"Don't worry about that, my boy," she said, delighted to be able to do something for those whom she owed her late chance to a normal life. "I'm sure I can deal with Sherlock. A bit of tender little care can get you a long way. Now, why don't you come in and have a cuppa with me? I was just about to put the kettle on, and I still have some of the ginger biscuits I baked yesterday."

"I don't want to be a nuisance," he began politely, but Mrs. Hudson cut him in the word.

"Nonsense. You look like someone in need of a bit of pampering yourself. Besides, tea always tastes better when shared."

She turned around, determined to wait on the bringer of good news, and Ianto Jones obediently followed her into her little salon, ready to be pampered.

~TBC~


	15. Part 15: The Resident Patient

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **As the chapter title reveals, we are dealing with events from the original ACD story here. However, there are considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 15 – The Resident Patient**

Sherlock was still working in the forensic labs of _Bart's_ late in the evening when Mike Stamford burst in, clearly agitated.

"I need your help," he declared without preamble. "Somebody might have broken into my house."

"Call the police," Sherlock replied without looking up from his microscope. "I don't waste my time on dull cases."

"No, no, you don't understand!" Mike protested. "It's not my rooms that have been… well, _probably_ have been… erm… _visited_ without invitation, but those of my resident patient."

"What, did they steal his bedpan or his crutches?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone, eyes still glued to his microscope.

God, why did people insist to bother him with their mundane little problems? Didn't they realise that he had much more important things to do?

"No," Mike said grimly. "Nothing has been touched or taken. But there are footprints that might – or might not – prove the intrusion."

At that Sherlock finally looked up from his microscope, turning halfway towards Mike, showing at least a modicum of interest.

"Your… what did you call him? Resident patient?" Mike nodded.

"He insists that somebody has been in his room?" Mike nodded again,

"And yet he wouldn't call the police?" Mike nodded a third time.

"Now, _that_," Sherlock said languidly, "is interesting."

"You think so?" Mike clearly wasn't so sure about that. "Lots of people hesitate to call the police, especially if they can't prove that something has actually happened."

"But the possibility scared him, didn't it?" Sherlock pointed out. "Scared him enough to agree to you getting help _outside_ the police."

Mike nodded. "I never saw a grown man work himself up so much over such a small thing. Something that might only exist in his imagination anyway. Why, he was all but crying, and I could barely get him to speak coherently. This has gone on for days by now, showing no sign to sort itself. I've come to the end of my patience with him."

"And so, since the police wouldn't take him seriously, even if he _were_ willing to call them, you thought that I might be interested," Sherlock said, his face impassive.

"Well… yeah," Mike admitted uncomfortably.

"And you were right," Sherlock rose. "This might be a small puzzle, but one of potential interest, once I've got all the details. Let's go."

"But what about your experiment?" Mike made a vague gesture towards the lab table. Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm researching he growth rate of mould on various substances. It will make its own progress in my absence. Come, let's get a cab."

* * *

As usual, Sherlock managed to get a cab at once, and within twenty minutes they were dropped off in front of Mike's residence in Brook Street. It was one of those sombre, flat-faced Victorian houses that had once been so characteristic for a West End practice. Sherlock briefly wondered how Mike could afford it, but soon discharged the thought as irrelevant – for the moment anyway.

Mike opened the front door with his own key – no personnel within the house, Sherlock noted absent-mindedly – mentioning that his receptionist only came on consultation days, and they began to climb the broad, well-carpeted stairs when the lights suddenly went off upstairs.

"Stay where you are!" a high, almost hysterical voice ordered from the darkness. "I've got a gun and I'm gonna use it if you come any closer!"

Mike rolled his eyes. "Oh, for God's sake, Mr. Blessington," he said in exasperation, "this is really getting old. Calm down, would you? I've brought someone who might help figuring out if there truly was an intruder in your room."

For some time, the unseen man didn't answer; then there was a resigned sigh in the darkness.

"All right," the voice from before said wearily. "I'm sorry I overreacted. Please come up."

The lights switched on again, and now Sherlock could see the man standing at the top; a man who was clearly a nervous wreck. A man of considerable girth, who, apparently, had at some time been much fatter, if the folds of skin hanging about his face in loose pouches were any indication. He was pale, almost pastry in colour and had thin, sandy hair that seemed to bristle up with the intensity of his agitation that was slowly ebbing as he watched them.

Finally deciding that he would trust the doctor and his unknown companion, he put the gun – an alarmingly large one – in his waistband and stepped aside, so that Sherlock and Mike could climb the stairs.

"You do realise, of course, that keeping a gun on you is illegal, unless you have permission from the police to do so," Sherlock commented.

The man nodded. "Sure; but I need to make precautions. You're the private detective Dr. Stamford mentioned?"

"_Consulting_ detective," Sherlock corrected coldly. Why couldn't people get their facts straight? Was it _really_ so hard? "The only one there is. The name is Sherlock Holmes; I suppose you've heard about me."

The man seemed to shrink at his tone and apologised profusely. "Yes, yes, of course, I'm sorry. I suppose Dr. Stamford has also told you about the intrusion into my room?"

"Quite so," Sherlock said. "So, who were the people who, in your opinion, came into your room and what could they possibly want from you?"

"Well, well," Blessington hesitated, looking everywhere save directly in his eyes. "Of course, it's hard to tell. You can hardly expect me to answer _that_, Mr. Holmes, now can you?"

Sherlock raised a sceptical eyebrow. "You mean you don't know?" he asked doubtfully, noticing how much the man was sweating – always a sign of someone lying.

"Come... come in here and I'll show you," Blessington herded them into his large and comfortably furnished bedroom. There he took a painting off the wall and pointed at the small safe behind it. "You see, sir, I've never been a wealthy man. Never made but one investment in my life, as Dr. Stamford can tell you. But I don't believe in bankers. I'd never trust a banker."

"Knowing a few of them, I can't really blame you," Sherlock said dryly, thinking of his old university mate, Sebastian Wilkes, now director of the Trading Floor at _Shad Sanderson Bank_. "But what has _that_ to do with your case?"

"Well, sir," Mike's patient explained, shifty-eyed, "what little I own is in that safe, so you can understand that I'm not exactly happy about unknown people searching my room."

"_Probably_ searching," Mike corrected _sotto voce_, still not buying the whole story.

Sherlock, however, simply glared at the man with the frightening intensity of sun-bathing reptiles fixing their next prey.

"I can't help you if you keep lying to me," he said. Blessington gave him a look of wounded innocence that didn't even fool Mike, who was generally a gullible man.

"But I've told you _everything_!" Blessington exclaimed.

"No, you haven't," Sherlock replied with absolute certainty; then he whirled around to glare at Mike for a change. "I'd thank you if you didn't bring me out on such a fool's errand, doctor," he said in a scathing tome. "My time is valuable, as you know, and I don't like wasting it on people who try to deceive me. It's an interesting case, at the bottom of it, but until your patient starts cooperating, I'm out."

With that, he ran down the stairs with the elegance of a festival dancer, Mike trudging after him, trying desperately to catch up.

"Wait!" Blessington cried after them in anguish. "Don't you have at least some advice for me?"

"Try the truth!" Sherlock called, without as much as a glance back.

~TBC~


	16. Part 16:The Russian Visitors

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 16 – The Russian Visitors**

He stormed out of the house, his coattails flapping after him like the wings of an enraged crow, his long legs carrying him with twice as much speed as Mike's chubby ones could have produced. He'd crossed Oxford Street and was halfway down Harley Street already when Mike finally caught up with him.

"Sherlock, wait!" he painted. "I don't understand any of this!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, waved for a passing cab and started to analyse the situation while he was climbing into the back seat, talking a mile a minute as was his wont.

"Well, it's clear that there's at least _someone_ who's hell-bent to get at your patient – for reasons I'm sure we'll find out eventually."

"How?" Mike asked, heaving into the cab next to him. "You've just given up the case, haven't you?"

"Yes, but I'm still curious," Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of _Bart's_ before continuing. "For starters, I need you to tell me how many people visited your consulting hours on the day Blessington discovered the intrusion and who they were."

"That was a slow day," Mike said. "As I have lessons on Thursday afternoons, I usually don't take any cases on that evening. This one, however, had booked a consulting hour via the website, so I decided to take the case without calling my receptionist in. The patient arrived at 18:15, as arranged, escorted by his son. He introduced himself as a Russian businessman, currently living in London."

"Hmmm," Sherlock's brain kicked visibly in higher gear. "Can you describe them? What did they look like? Did they have any distinctive characteristics?"

"Well, the father was an elderly man, thin and reserved," Mike began. "He didn't look how I'd imagine a Russian businessman at all. But there was something in his eyes that gave me the impression that he was used to give orders and be obeyed."

"What was his excuse to visit you?" Sherlock pressed on. Mike shrugged.

"He apparently suffered from cataleptic attacks, heard of me – no need to look like _that_, I'm actually a specialist in that area! – and hoped that I could help him."

"Was he a genuine patient?" Sherlock's tone revealed that he seriously doubted it.

Mike made an uncertain gesture. "To be honest, he didn't strike me as particularly intelligent, and his answers, when I asked him about his condition, were somewhat nebulous. But again, he didn't speak English very well."

"Oh, don't be stupid, of course he did!" Sherlock said impatiently. "He just wanted to deceive you – and succeeded, it seems."

Mike ignored the causal insult with practiced ease.

"If you think so. In any case, as I sat there, taking notes, he abruptly fell silent. I turned to him to ask what was wrong and found him sitting bolt upright in his chair, staring at me with a blank, rigid face," he shuddered. "Even after all the cases I've already seen, it's not a pretty sight."

"Were the symptoms what you'd expect, based on previous experience?" Sherlock asked. Mike nodded.

"Oh, yes. I made notes of my patient's pulse and temperature, tested the rigidity of his muscles and examined his reflexes. There was nothing markedly abnormal in any of their condition."

"It _was_ a genuine attack, then?" Sherlock pressed.

"At the very least the symptoms appeared genuine," Mike assured him. "However, I happened to get a phone call on the landline in the reception area, and when I got back, my patient was gone."

"Ah!" Sherlock leaned back with a smug grin. "He _was_ a fake, after all; and so was his illness."

Mike shook his head. "Not necessarily. Cataleptic attacks can end as abruptly as they've begun; and the patient's mind is often confused afterwards. It's quite possible that the old man woke up in what would seem a strange room to him and made his way out into the street in a slightly dazed state while I was taking that call. His son, waiting for him, might believe that the consultation was over and simply followed him."

"Ah, yes, the son," Sherlock said. "You've mentioned him Can you describe him to me in more detail?"

"Sure," Mike shrugged. "He was a tall, ruggedly handsome bloke with dark hair, dark eyes and more muscles than any decent man is entitled to have. Actually, he could have passed as a third Klitschko brother, both in size and features."

"Did he strike you as a Russian?" Sherlock asked.

"To be honest, I couldn't tell a Russian from a Czech or any other East-European for my life," Mike admitted. "The young man _did_ have an accent like in those bad espionage films, but whether it was genuine or not… He spoke English much better than his father, albeit with a slight lisp, but that's all I can tell. I can look up their names in my database, though, if you want me to."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock waved impatiently. "They're most certainly false. It was doubtlessly the younger one who searched Mr. Blessington's room, while his partner-in-crime kept you from interfering by his well-rehearsed performance."

"That's impossible!" Mike protested. "That was a cataleptic attack if I ever saw one, and trust me, I _have_ seen a lot of those."

"A skilled imitation," Sherlock corrected. "He knew you were a specialist and gave you exactly what you expected from him. The symptoms are very easy to imitate, really. I've done it myself."

"_When?_" Mike's eyes were big like saucers. "_Why?_"

Sherlock waved off his question. "Irrelevant. They must have studied Blessington's habits and checked your consulting hours well in advance, in order to ensure that neither your receptionist nor other patients would be in the waiting room; and that Blessington would be out, on his habitual walk before dinner."

"But there's no sign that the rooms would indeed have been searched," Mike reminded him, climbing out of the cab as it stopped in front of _Bart's_.

"Which proves that they weren't merely after plunder," Sherlock followed him, paying the cabbie. "No; they were looking for something special, and Blessington knows what _that_ is and who _they_ are."

"How can you be so sure about that?" Mike asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I can read in a man's eye when he's afraid for his own hide. It's only logical that somebody who's made such determined enemies as these two fake Russians would know about it."

"You really think Blessington knows who these men are?" Mike was still a little doubtful.

"Oh, yes, he knows it," Sherlock replied. "He just won't admit it, and the reason for that can only be that he, too, has a few skeletons in his cupboard. Let's hope he'll be in a more communicative mood tomorrow."

"Unlikely, as far as I've come to known him in the last two years," Mike sighed. "Can we be absolutely true that somebody was in his room in the first place? Couldn't he have imagined things?"

"He could," Sherlock allowed. "But in this case, he didn't."

Mike shook his head in bewilderment. "How can you tell? You didn't even examine his room in any detail!"

"I didn't have to," Sherlock said with a shrug. "The young man had left footprints on the stair-carpet, still visible after several days, which made it unnecessary for me to ask to see those which he might have made in the room. As you remember, it rained quite heavily in the previous few evenings, and you said yourself that the fake Russians were the only patients on that day. So the young man was the only person who could have left those footprints."

"How so?" Mike frowned. "Could it not have been Blessington himself? He was out in the afternoon, too. Or it could have been my footprints, too."

Sherlock shook his head. "No; the prints were made by a square-toed shoe, not a pointed one like Blessington's."

"My shoes are square-toed, too," Mike pointed out.

"Yes, but the footprints on the stair-carpet were an inch and a third longer than yours," Sherlock replied. "In any case, my work there is done. We'll continue when Mr. Blessington decides to stop lying and start cooperating."

"You think he will, ever?" Mike asked.

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said with a dark little smile. "He's the sort of petty criminal that _loves_ to pour out his heart. I'm sure we'll hear of him before long."

~TBC~


	17. Part 17: Puppeteers

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Just some background action to bind up the loose threads.

* * *

**Part 17 – Puppeteers**

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in his limousine – which was, in turn, currently parking in front of the classical marble-columned entrance of the _Diogenes Club_, waiting for him to enter his refuge – listening to Ianto's report. He could have done so in the _Strangers' Room_, of course, but Ianto needed to keep a low profile as long as he was officially dead.

Hence the car; but the location didn't change the fact that he was content with what he'd heard.

"Mrs. Hudson is willing to accept him as a boarder, then?" he asked, somewhat unnecessarily, just to summarise the facts for himself. Ianto nodded.

"She seemed quite happy to do so, sir. I assume it was you who ensured that her insane husband would be executed for his hideous crimes, instead of being pardoned and put into a psychiatric hospital?"

"No; that was genuinely Sherlock," Mycroft smiled vaguely. "Or rather the Doctor, in his eight incarnation; he used to visit Florida at the right time. I just changed the alias he'd used during his stay in the States to Sherlock's name, that's all."

"_He_ did it?" Ianto was surprised. "I thought the Doctor despised violence; and that he opposed lethal penalty. Jack always sang in the highest tones about his peaceful ways."

"Harkness is – _was_ – completely biased when it came to Doctor, as you know," Mycroft replied. "Besides, he only knew him during his ninth and tenth incarnations. Each regeneration is different. We not only change our looks, we often develop very different personalities, too. It can be a tad… confusing sometimes."

"Well, the one I knew from hearsay was certainly a bastard," Ianto said darkly.

Mycroft sighed. "Ten did have his moments; fortunately, the following versions showed much improvement. In any case, as we are the last ones of our race still alive – at least on Earth – I'm responsible for him; and I take my responsibilities seriously."

"Are you sure there aren't any others, sir?" Ianto asked. "The Master has fooled both of you before."

"And he _can_ do so again, which is something of a concern," Mycroft admitted. "There's no way to recognise a Time Lord in human disguise – not even for another Time Lord. Which is why you must keep that watch safe, by any means necessary. Do you have it on you?"

"All the time," Ianto fished the fob watch out of the pocket of his waistcoat and weighed it in his palm thoughtfully. "It's an odd feeling, really. Holding in my hand everything that _makes_ him the Doctor. As if I had him at my mercy."

"That is an illusion," Mycroft warned. "You can't harm him through the watch, you know. Should you destroy it, you would only release his true nature."

Ianto nodded. "I know. And it's not so as if I'd really want to harm him. Punch him in the nose, yeah, definitely, but harm him? No; I was just thinking how Jack would sell his soul for the chance of becoming his keeper… and I, who never wanted to have _anything_ to do with him, have been assigned this task. Why me, sir? You could do that. Or Anthea."

"We could," Mycroft agreed," but that would be wrong. Of us all, including Harkness, you're the only human truly from Earth. The only one who really belongs to this time period. It's your right to decide when he can be unleashed over this clueless planet again."

"What if I decide that Earth has had enough of him?" Ianto asked. "If I choose to encase the sodding watch in concrete and bury it on the bottom of the ocean?"

"Then he'll live out the natural life of a human; and when that human dies, he'll be gone forever, as he won't have a body in which he return," Mycroft gave Ianto a sharp look as if wondering whether he'd misread the young man. "Is _that_ what you want?"

Ianto shook his head and pocketed the watch again. "Nah; Jack would never forgive me."

"And you'd spare him just because his demise would upset Harkness?" Mycroft arched an inquisitive eyebrow. Ianto shrugged and Mycroft's glance sharpened again. "You still make your decisions dependent on how Harkness would react. That can be dangerous."

"I care for him," Ianto said calmly.

Mycroft shook his head with a sad expression. "Caring is not an advantage, Ianto. It makes you vulnerable."

"No," Ianto replied. "It makes me _human_, sir. And it makes _you_ human, too."

"That, again, is something I wouldn't consider as an advantage," Mycroft said dryly. "No offence intended."

"None taken, sir," Ianto shrugged. "Your opinion about us is positively flattering, compared with that of the Doctor. So I can't deny seeing a bit of poetic justice in the fact that he's got to live as one of us again – and be completely clueless about it."

"Speaking of which, I assume you've taken care of the transferring of his funds?" Mycroft asked. "Including the necessary restrictions, so that he wouldn't be able to access most of the capital?"

Ianto nodded. "Of course, sir. May I ask why you chose the _Shad Sanderson Bank_, though? I thought you'd prefer the older, time-honoured ones."

"I do," Mycroft agreed, "but _Sherlock_ wouldn't. Choosing a modern bank in Tower 42, with all that glass and chrome and revolving doors and high-end technology is a very Sherlock thing to do… just like the website, the smartphone and all the other little gadgets. Besides, Sebastian Wilkes, the Director of the Trading Floor at _Shad Sanderson_, is a schoolfriend of Sherlock. A genuine one."

"Isn't that a bit risky, sir?" Ianto asked with a frown. "What if he notices the difference?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Unlikely. They haven't met since university and people, especially young people, change a lot in ten years. We've managed to find a fellow student with a matching personality and simply altered the name and the personal data, adding a few fake memories about them being causal friends. Well, _acquaintances_. Sherlock doesn't _have_ any friends."

"Sherlock… or the Doctor?" Ianto asked.

"Neither," Mycroft replied simply. "We Time Lords are too arrogant to make friends, even among our own kind."

"I'll take your word for that, sir," Ianto said diplomatically. "I also presume there's no chance for the actual schoolfriend to show up unexpectedly?"

"No; he died from a cocaine overdose a few years ago." Mycroft explained. "About the same time Sherlock was supposedly in drug therapy."

"How… convenient," Ianto commented dryly, but Mycroft shook his head.

"Not our doing. But the fact gave us the idea to build up Sherlock as a cocaine addict in the first place. It explained why no-one would get to see him in person. It has been a ready-made alias for years; well before the TARDIS would crash-land in our back yard. By the way, where _is_ she now?"

"Already delivered to 221 Baker Street as an XXL-sized fridge," Ianto replied. "Anthea fixed the chameleon circuit and locked it, so that she'd remain a fridge until… well, until the Doctor would need her again. The perception filter also works like a charm, so nobody would even _think_ that she could be anything else than a fridge."

"Good," Mycroft suppressed a smile. The TARDIS as a fridge was an amusing image, but it had been her choice to begin with. "Did Mrs. Hudson have any objections against having such a big fridge in the flat?"

Ianto smiled. "I told her it was a loan, so that Sherlock wouldn't raid _her_s; or put any disgusting experiments into it. She was actually grateful. She's excited about having him as a boarder, in truth. I think it will work out just fine."

"Let's hope so," Mycroft sighed and got out of the limousine. "Have Anthea install that surveillance system anyway. This is a potentially volatile situation and we should be better safe than sorry."

~TBC~


	18. Part 18: Quartet

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 18 – Quartet**

Detective Inspector Lestrade was about to finish for the night and leave for home when the call came in. He could see Donovan take it; he saw her face fell and reached for his phone resignedly to text his wife. He knew there would be no going home tonight.

"We've got another one?" he asked in defeat; not that there could have been any doubt.

Donovan nodded. "We've got another one," she agreed grimly.

Lestrade closed his eyes. "Where?"

Donovan studied her notebook. "At 403 Brook Street," she frowned. "A rather posh neighbourhood for a change."

"Brook Street?" Lestrade repeated with a frown. "Isn't that where Dr. Stamford has his private practice?"

Donovan gave him a blank look. "Doctor _who_?"

"Mike Stamford," Anderson told her, collecting his gear needed for the examination of the crime scene. "The fat bloke with the glasses who sometimes works with Miss Hooper at _Bart's_. Also known as the lapdog of the Freak."

"Oh, _him_!" Donovan waved dismissively, but Lestrade had had enough.

"All right, that's it, both of you," he said. "Stop it or I'll stop it for you. Dr. Stamford is a respected teacher at the medical school as well as a name-worthy scientist, and I won't have you two let out your dislike for Holmes on him, just because they're friends."

"Friends!" Donovan snorted. "The Freak doesn't _have_ friends. He's just using Stamford; like he's using Hooper at _Bart's_."

"Which is none of your business, as long as they're okay with it," Lestrade interrupted. "They do their jobs, you do yours and Sherlock does his – and together, we solve our cases better than any other department at New Scotland Yard. Now, shut up and let's go take a look at the fourth member in our suicidal quartet."

* * *

When they reached 403 Brook Street, they found Sherlock Holmes already at the crime scene and Dr. Stamford in a state of complete nervous breakdown. The paramedics were also there, wrapping him in a ridiculously orange shock blanket and giving him something to calm him down.

"Another mysterious suicide," Holmes greeted them cheerfully. "Mr Blessington hanged himself in a closed room – isn't it exciting?"

"Try not to enjoy it too much," Lestrade muttered angrily.

The only answer he got was an indifferent shrug from their resident menace.

"What's the Freak doing here anyway?" Anderson demanded.

Sherlock looked him up and down arrogantly. "Really, Anderson, what use do you have for that miserable little brain of yours anyway? Aside from figuring out sorry excuses for your wife whenever you sneak away into the broom closet with Sally here, that is."

Anderson's face became beet red with anger. For a moment, it seemed as if he'd hit Sherlock, but Lestrade intervened just in time.

"Actually, I'd like to know that myself, Sherlock."

Holmes rolled his eyes with his customary why-are-all-people-such-idiots expression.

"Isn't that obvious? Mike called me."

"And why would he call _you_ instead of the police?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock sighed.

"Because I've met the victim just a few days ago at his request, that's why. Besides, he _did_ call the police, obviously, or you still wouldn't have a clue."

Lestrade's eyes widened in surprise. "Have you now? Well, if this isn't our lucky day! What can you tell us about the victim? Who was he anyway? Was he Dr. Stamford's flatmate?"

"Not quite," Sherlock replied. "He was Mike's resident patient. Has been for the last two years, actually."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson rolled his eyes. "Is there still such thing as resident patients? I thought they became extinct in the early twentieth century."

"Try not to think so much, Anderson," Sherlock returned. "It might put too much strain on your brain."

"Stop it, both of you!" Lestrade ordered. "Clearly, we need to learn more about Dr. Stamford's relationship with his… _patient_. Also, we need to find out if he – _or_ the victim – could, in any way, be connected to the other suicides."

"I'm sure Mike will be more than happy to tell you everything," Sherlock said. "This is the most exciting thing that's ever happened to him in his whole life. I, on the other hand, need to see the crime scene."

"No way!" Anderson protested. "I don't want my crime scene contaminated."

"Then stay out of it!" Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade ignored them both. Unfortunately, he couldn't ignore the increasing pressure behind his ears that promised the mother of all headaches coming within the hour.

"I can give you five minutes," he told Sherlock. "Anderson, find something else to do in the meantime. Let's go."

* * *

They climbed the stairs and entered Blessington's bedroom. The sight that greeted them wasn't appealing. If Blessington had appeared flabby the last time Sherlock saw him, now he was bloated to almost grotesque proportions, dangling from the hook in his long nightshirt.

"What a bizarre sight," Sherlock commented, looking up at the dead man with his head tilted to the side, bird-like. "Don't you find that he looks like a plucked chicken, with his neck drawn out like that?"

"No more bizarre than your obvious enjoyment of the whole thing," Lestrade muttered, eyeing the swollen ankles and ungainly feet hanging out from beneath the nightshirt unenthusiastically. "Take a look around and tell me what can you make of what you see. Your five minutes are ticking."

Sherlock launched into action without bothering to answer. Knowing how little time he had, he tried to get the overall picture as well as picking up as many details as possible, talking to himself – and to Lestrade – as he was doing so.

"Hmmm… last time I saw him, the man was already scared out of his mind. Nonetheless, the bed has been slept in; as you can see, the impression is still deep enough, which means he must have been lying there at least four or five hours. It's about 5 a.m. – a popular time for suicides, a logical choice if they wanted to make us believe that he'd hung himself."

"You mean he hasn't?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Of course not, and neither have the other three, try to pay attention to the bigger picture, would you? This is a meticulously planned, well-executed murder, just like the other cases."

"Okay," Lestrade said. "Let's say you're right…"

"Of course I am!" Sherlock scoffed.

"… but you'll have to provide me with some hard proof and at least one suspect before I can go out and start arresting people," Lestrade continued, ignoring the interruption.

Sherlock mulled over _that_ for a moment; then he nodded abruptly.

"Very well; but I'll need more than five minutes to give you what you need. Go and talk to Mike about his patient while I examine this room in more detail. And keep Anderson out of my hair, for God's sake!"

After a moment of hesitation Lestrade reluctantly agreed and went to interview Mike Stamford. Finally left alone, Sherlock went to the door first and examined the lock thoroughly, even taking out a magnifying lens. He hummed contentedly when he found the small, barely visible scratches both on the key and around the keyhole. He took photos of them with his smartphone for further evidence.

Then he examined the bed, the carpet – which had some faint footprints on it, two pairs of them he also took photos of – the chairs, the mantelpiece, the dead body and the rope on which it hung. More photos were taken, as well as tiny samples from the rope. He found three cigarette stubs in the fireplace and carefully put them into an evidence bag to examine them later at _Bart's_ himself.

"Yes," he murmured. "Yes, the actual facts are horribly dull, and I'd be surprised if I didn't have the reason for them within a day or two. That photo from the mantelpiece and the victim's fingertips should prove very useful."

~TBC~


	19. Part 19: A Deal With the Devil

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 19 – A Deal With the Devil**

"I studied at London University, thanks to a scholarship founded by the Holmes family," Mike Stamford explained to Lestrade, after the sedative had taken effect and he felt up to returning to his consulting room and talking to the police.

He was vaguely ashamed by the fact that he'd needed a benefactor to be able to study in the first place, but what other chance did he have? His mother had refused to support him, due to their differences concerning her choices, and he had no money to his name whatsoever.

"I was… I was a promising student," he continued, "which is how I got a minor position at _Bart's _after graduating. A position where I have the chance to do some research aside from teaching a few classes, too."

"All this, no doubts, thanks to the generosity of the Holmeses," Anderson commented cynically. Mike shook him an unfriendly look.

"I never denied that I owe Mr. Holmes a lot," he returned angrily. "But my research into the pathology of catalepsy is my own; and I didn't win the Bruce Pinkerton prize with his help, either. It was all _my_ doing, _my_ sleepless nights spent in the labs, bent over the microscope. My dissertation on nervous lesions was written by me alone, and so were the articles that I've published in various medical journals since then, thank you very much."

"Don't insult the witness, Anderson; you might need his knowledge one day," Lestrade said calmly. "Please do go on, Dr. Stamford. How have you, a teacher and researcher, ended up with a resident patient? Isn't that unusual for a theoretical scientist?"

Stamford's rosy face crumpled in misery. It was a strange thing, seeing such a competent, self-confident man flatten like a prickled balloon, Lestrade found.

"I've made a deal with the devil, you could say," the doctor confessed glumly. "You see, my main problem had always been the lack of capital. I _needed_ to practice, in order to continue research; I needed _patients_. And I needed at the very least a consulting room and a part-time receptionist. _And_ I needed supplies; and a car to go to my patients if they couldn't come to me – all things I simply couldn't afford on my own. I was still living in the same bed-sit as in my student years, for God's sake!"

"And that's where the late Mr. Blessington came into the picture," Lestrade guessed.

Stamford nodded. "Yes," he said simply.

"Had you known him from earlier?" the Detective Inspector asked.

Stamford shook his head. "No; he simply marched into my office at _Bart's_ two year ago, out of the blue. He seemed to know who I was; that I'd recently won a prize and asked if I'd like to start a practice in Brook Street, of all places."

"Just like that?" Anderson asked doubtfully. Stamford shrugged.

"Just like that, yeah. Said he had some money to invest; and that investing it in _me_ seemed safer to him than any other speculation. I was flattered, actually."

"I can see why," Lestrade nodded. "What, exactly, were the terms of your agreement?"

"Blessington offered to find a house, pay the rent _and_ the wages of my receptionist – if I handed over three quarters of what I'd earn on any potential patients, and he could stay with me as a resident patient. He said his heart was weak and he needed constant medical supervision."

"And you accepted the offer?" Lestrade could barely believe how naïve the doctor had been.

Stamford shrugged again. "What other chance did I have? Without a sponsor it would have taken me _decades_ to put up my plate – if ever."

"And so the two of you lived together for the last two years," Lestrade said; it wasn't a question. "How did it work out?"

"We managed," Stamford replied with another indifferent shrug. "Blessington required the two best rooms upstairs for himself, of course, turning them into a bedroom and a living room, and I didn't see much of him, save in the evenings of my consulting days, when he'd come down into my practice, checked my books and took three quarters of whatever I had earned on that day."

"It must been humiliating like hell," Donovan said with just a touch of compassion. She, too, came from a less than wealthy family and had to work hard for every penny all her life.

"It wasn't always pleasant," Stamford admitted, "but he _had_ supplied me with the means of starting my practice in the first place, and I _did_ agree to the conditions."

"_He_ was the one who came out of this partnership a wealthy man, though, wasn't he?" Donovan asked. "With a few good cases and the reputation you've won at _Bart's_ you must have made him fairly rich."

"Not exactly rich, no," Stamford corrected, "but considerably wealthy, yes."

"Would it be correct to say that by now you'd be able to run the place on your own?" Lestrade asked. "_If_ he hadn't kept taking three quarters of your income?"

Stamford calculated a little in his head, and then nodded.

"In all probability… yes. You see, he didn't have access to my wages at _Bart's_, modest as they may be, so I was able to set aside some money in the two years he was paying the rent – _and_ my receptionist. I may not be able to keep the receptionist – unless I marry her, and I really don't think she'd be interested – but I could, most likely, keep the practice…" his speech slowed down, realising where the question might be taking him, and became defensive at once. "Hey, wait a minute! You're not thinking _I had_ something to do with his death, do you? Cause if you do, you're mistaken!"

"Right now we still treat the case as a suicide, regardless what Sherlock might think," Lestrade said soothingly. "Now, let's get back to the victim. The more we learn about him, the closer we get to solving this case. Tell me, doctor; have Mr. Blessington's habits or general behaviour changed lately?"

Stamford furrowed his brow, trying to remember – then it visibly dawned on him.

"As a matter of fact… yes, they have," he said slowly.

"Excellent," Lestrade said. "Now we're making progress. Please, think about it _very_ carefully – and tell me _everything_. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it may appear to you. In the bigger context, it could turn out to be of great importance. Donovan, take notes."

Donovan fished out her small notebook and a ball pen and looked at the doctor expectantly.

"You can speak as you always do," she said. "I'm pretty good at shorthand; no need to wait for me."

Mike Stamford thought longingly of his bed and a stiff drink or three – nothing else could have soothed his nerves in this miserable night – but realised that he wouldn't get any of those before the police were done. So he leaned back in his armchair, sighed wearily and began to speak.

~TBC~


	20. Part 20: The Mysterious Mr Kuryakin

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 20 – The Mysterious Mr. Kuryakin**

"Some weeks ago Mr. Blessington came down to me, highly agitated, telling about a series of break-ins in the West End," he began. "He was almost hysterical about that for some reason and demanded that we should put additional security locks on the doors and windows. He even considered having an alarm system installed."

"And?" Lestrade asked. "Did you?"

"Well, I found the idea ridiculous and the whole thing unnecessary – after all, here isn't much to take, and he had a safe in his bedroom already – but since he was paying the bills, I thought I'd accommodate him," Stamford replied. "There's no use to argue with paranoid people, and a bit more safety is never wrong."

"You didn't mention him being paranoid before," Lestrade said.

"Yeah, well, he _wasn't_ paranoid before," Stamford returned.

"He was, though, from this day on?" the Detective Inspector asked.

The doctor nodded. "Oh yeah, very much so. He was peering out of the windows all the time; even stopped taking short walks before dinner, although he'd done so regularly earlier. In fact, he didn't even leave the house for almost a fortnight. You'd have thought his life was in mortal danger or whatnot."

"Apparently, it _was_," Anderson pointed out smugly. "Perhaps you should have listened to him."

Stamford scowled at him in annoyance. "I'd like _you_ to make a difference between well-founded fear for one's safety and full-blown paranoia. I'm not a shrink, dammit!"

Lestrade intervened with practiced ease before the two could get into a verbal fight. Between Sherlock and Anderson he sometimes felt like a frustrated pre-school teacher, and _this_ wasn't any better.

"Did Blessington gradually calm down after those two weeks?" he asked, and Stamford nodded. "Did he also return to his normal habits? Like taking short walks?"

"For a while, yes," Stamford replied. "Until that odd patient anyway. After that, everything got worse. _Much_ worse."

"What odd patient?" Lestrade had a hard time to conceal his impatience. Getting details out of the doctor was like pulling teeth.

"The Russian one who left in the middle of a consultation right after having a cataleptic attack, less than a week ago," Stamford explained readily enough. "Mr. Blessington was adamant that the son of the patient had searched his room while he was taking his daily walk. He worked himself up to such a state that I was worried about his heart and asked for Sherlock's help to calm him down. I thought Sherlock would be able to tell whether there was an intrusion in the first place."

"And?" Lestrade withstood the urge to kick the doctor in the shin in order to speed him up a bit. Barely. "Was there?"

"Apparently yes," Stamford replied. "Sherlock found footprints on the stair carpet that, in his opinion, couldn't be mine or Mr. Blessington's. He also said that Blessington was lying to him and that both the Russian patient _and_ his son were fakes, and that he old man only imitated the attack to keep me occupied while his son searched the rest of the house."

"Are you sure they were Russians at all?" Lestrade asked.

"No," Stamford admitted. "But I didn't really care. I'm a doctor; I focus on my patients' diseases, not on their accent, false or otherwise. Yes, they _did_ have some sort of accent, but I haven't got the faintest what sort it was. And they younger one, though he lisped a bit, spoke English very well. Satisfied?"

The detectives and Anderson exchanged meaningful looks.

"Sounds familiar, doesn't it?" Donovan commented. "Tell me, Dr. Stamford, did this supposedly Russian patient give you any name? I assume you've started a medical file on him."

"Why, of course!" Stamford replied, a little insulted that they'd take him for such a negligent person. "Only hand-written notes, though. I only set up files when the patient has agreed to further consultations or a certain treatment."

He rummaged among the papers covering his desk until he found the right one.

"Here you are," he said, handing it to Lestrade. "The name of the old man was Kuryakin. Pyotr Kuryakin. _What_?" he asked in bewilderment when both cops _and_ Anderson suddenly started howling with laughter.

"Why?" Lestrade asked rhetorically, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, not caring that the laughter had worsened his headache considerably. "Why does nobody know the classics in these days?"

It took him and Donovan several minutes to explain the good doctor the significance of the name Kuryakin and why it couldn't have been a genuine name. By then they had all calmed down, so that the investigation could be continued.

"We can be sure then that these two so-called Russians were as fake as probably the old man's illness was," Lestrade summarised. "I can also tell you, Dr. Stamford, that the young man – who most likely _wasn't_ the older one's son – has died shortly after their visit here."

"Died?" Stamford exclaimed. "But he seemed so strong and healthy, a true Hercules, even if a little pale in face! What was the cause of his death?"

"He apparently hanged himself in his own flat," Lestrade replied grimly. "Just like your resident patient; who, by the way, is the fourth such a case within the last month."

"You suspect foul play," Stamford said slowly, "_and_ a connection."

Lestrade nodded. "It would be a little too much of a coincidence otherwise, don't you think?"

"Yeah, I guess so," Stamford agreed. "But how are you going to find that connection?"

"Well, we've sent the fingerprints of the previous victims to the central database," Lestrade shrugged. "Miss Hooper is working on the autopsies, looking for similarities, and the DNA-analysis is running, too. It may take some time, but the results _will_ come in eventually… and I hope Sherlock's found something useful at the crime scene."

"Speaking of which," Anderson rose from his seat, "it's _my_ crime scene now. The five minutes of the Freak are ten times over by now."

"He's already left," Donovan told him; at his surprised look she merely shrugged. "Isn't that what he always does?"

"But how can you know that for sure?" Lestrade asked.

"Inspector, on the day I don't know what he's doing at a crime scene in every moment is the day you should fire me," Donovan tapped on her phone with a finger. "The colleagues watching the scene kept tab on him for me and texted me the moment he left."

Lestrade gave her a look that held a certain amount of admiration.

"Remind me never to get on your bad side, Sally," he said, and she grinned at him in satisfaction.

~TBC~


	21. Part 21: A Woman Called Harry

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** In this AU Harry Watson is "played" by Emilia Fox. Her ex, Clara, has been tentatively cast as Kathie McGraw, just because the two actresses worked well together in "Merlin".

Also, John Watson is married in many of the ACD stories. Since I wanted him unattached for most of this story, I gave him a (failed) pre-series marriage. And since we're in multi-cultural London, I gave him an Indian ex-wife. One inspired by the main character from "The Mistress of Spices".

* * *

**Part 21 – A Woman Called Harry**

Harriet Watson stared at the official letter from the Royal Army in shocked disbelief. Granted, it wasn't _the_ letter – the one she'd feared in recent years, the one that would tell her as John's next of kin that her brother had been killed in Afghanistan – but it was bad enough.

No, John hadn't been killed, but he'd been wounded severely enough to get an honourable discharge and to be sent home, invalided and with a serious case of PTSD.

Home to England where he had nothing to live for. Home to London where he didn't even have a home anymore. Not since the divorce had gone through and Mary, that stupid bitch, had sold their house and returned to her sodding family and her sodding spices.

As if driving John into the clutches of the Army with her constant whining about too long hours spent in hospital wards hadn't been enough. No, she had to make him homeless as well.

And he'll be arriving in four days – to find _what_? A sister whom he'd left clean, happily married and with a good job… and who was now back to drinking, getting a divorce and probably soon unemployed as well. He'd be so disappointed with her! He used to be glad that at least _one_ of them had managed to get a grip on their life, even though they never got on well.

How could her perfect life have gotten shattered to a myriad pieces in just a few years?

Deep within she knew the answer of course, she was just loath to admit it. It was the sodding bottle that had ruined every single one of her relationships: that with her brother, that with Clara, and it was just about to cost her the job, too, by alienating colleagues and clients alike. Again.

Just as it had done with her mother. In the Watson family, the drinking habit seemed to hit the women, almost exclusively. The men had their fair share of addictions, too, but different ones.

Their father had spent all his spare time at the horse races, betting, winning and losing. Actually, mostly losing, which had only made him more obsessed with the idea of winning back his losses. After a while, his small private practice could no longer cover the expenses, and he chose the coward's way out and shot himself in the head.

Thy never saw their mother in a sober state afterwards, and the excessive drinking took her to an early grave only three years later. At least she got to see John graduate before she died. And Harry fell into the familiar pattern of Watson women all too soon, whenever the stress became too much.

John was different; perhaps the most disciplined in their entire family. He _was_ an adrenalin junkie, true; one who thrived on danger and split-second decisions and the stress only working at A&E could offer a doctor… well, save the war, of course. But he always knew his limits and rarely went beyond them, unless there was no other way. He never sought danger for danger's sake alone, but he never backed off in the face of danger, either.

He should never have married Mary. Mary had always been a dead weight on his back; pulling him down like a millstone bound to his ankles. Mary, in her quaint little spice bazaar in the East End, surrounded by a colourful herd of siblings, first-, second- and third grade cousins, uncles and aunts and grandparents from both her mother's and her father's side, who still spoke Tulu among themselves, could never understand a man like John.

Despite the English name she bore – courtesy of some distant British ancestor somewhere up the family tree, the same one from whom she inherited her striking blue eyes – Mary Morstan was still spiritually trapped by her Bunt roots. Descending from erstwhile Keralan gentry, the family led a very traditional and much internalised life. Harry never understood how John could have made a mistake of marrying a woman of such a background.

Oh, sure, Mary _was_ stunningly beautiful, like some Hindu goddess on those ancient paintings. But she was a good ten years younger than John and she knew nothing about the world aside her family traditions and her spices. Her family had been outraged when she married a stranger, as they put it, and after a few years of half-hearted struggle to fit in to _John's_ world, she simply fled back to them.

By the time the family had handed in the divorce papers John was already on his way to Afghanistan. That was _his_ way to deal with stress, _his_ addiction. Perhaps less obvious than Harry's drinking, but every bit as destructive.

And now he was coming back, with a bullet wound in his shoulder bad enough to make him unfit for the armed duty and needing a cane to walk, and boy, wasn't _that_ gonna be the worst case of withdrawal since Harry's last – failed! – therapy? How long was he going to last, collecting his miserable army pension, with no excitement, no danger and nothing useful to do?

Would he shoot himself in the head like their father had done?

Oh God, how was she supposed to help him? Harry wrung her hands in despair She needed a stiff drink the worst possible way; hadn't had one for two days in a row, the longest time she'd managed since Clara and she had split up three months ago, but right now she couldn't manage without one any longer.

How was she supposed to support a broken man, returning invalided from the war, when she couldn't even manage her own affairs? John would spot at first sight that she was drinking again; he could always tell when she was having a relapse. Perhaps it was a doctor thing, or perhaps he just knew her too well, and there would be a big fight again, and God, she was so tired of fighting, she just couldn't do this anymore…

She ran to the bathroom to splash cold water into her face, in the hope to regain her balance. She hadn't counted with the effect of seeing her own image in the mirror, though – and _that_ was a shock.

She looked terrible, simply terrible. She'd lost a lot of weight since Clara had left and looked thin as a boy, almost wraith-like. There were dark rings around her eyes, and the pale skin was stretched too tight over sharp cheekbones above her hollow cheeks. Her dishwater-blonde hair was brittle and lifeless like old straw and generously streaked with grey, and her eyes were bloodshot. She shuddered from the sight.

She'd let herself go spectacularly since Clara's departure. That wouldn't do. She was barely beyond forty; she couldn't run around like some negligent old hag. First order of the business was to go to the hairdresser's and got her hair dyed a homogenous blonde again. Then, perhaps, to a beauty salon to have something done about her face, too. Cosmetics could cover a great deal of damage.

John would see through her mask of false beauty, of course. He always did. But she owed her brother – and probably herself, too – at least that much that there would be a still attractive woman waiting for him at the airport instead of an unkempt, elderly addict.

Cause she _would_ be there to welcome him home. _Somebody_ had to – and his ex-wife certainly wouldn't.

What was she just about to do? Right, call the hairdresser and make an appointment. God, but her brain was sluggish today! She couldn't _possibly_ go out and deal with things in this foggy state of mind.

She reached into the cosmetics cupboard for her hidden stack of bourbon.

"Just one, to help me focus," she muttered the old excuse.

The amber liquid sloshed over the rand of the glass as she poured the drink with trembling hands.

~TBC~


	22. Part 22: Miss Grosvenor

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes. But one of the bad guys is _really_ called Moffat in the books, I swear! It's not my fault!

* * *

**Part 22 – Miss Grosvenor**

Detective Inspector Lestrade got back to Scotland Yard in the early afternoon of the next day, after barely five hours of sleep and a visit to _St. Bart's_ morgue. He had several autopsy reports in his hand and a particularly grim expression on his face.

The bags under his eyes and the still raging headache were only the added bonus.

"Have you found Dr. Stamford's part-time receptionist?" he asked Donovan, who was already in, as usual. Perhaps she hadn't even gone home from Brook Street in the early morning.

Did the woman ever sleep?

Donovan shook her head. "No luck with that so far. Her mobile phone's turned off and, according to her landlady, she hadn't been home in the last four days at all. Ever since…"

"… ever since the younger one of the two fake Russians had been found dead at 221C Baker Street," Lestrade finished for her. "Coincidence?"

"Hardly," Donovan said with a snort. "She's got something to do with these suicides or I don't deserve my promotion."

"Oh, I think you certainly deserve it," Lestrade waved with the autopsy reports. "I think the current state of the investigation would justify a search warrant for her flat, don't you agree?"

"Already done, sir," Donovan replied. "I got the warrant in the morning and dragged Anderson over to the place. He wasn't happy, of course – especially as we already found the Freak there, charming the landlady out of her knickers – but I thought it couldn't wait."

"You were right," Lestrade nodded. "So, what did you find?"

"That's what makes it really interesting, sir," Donovan said slowly. "We found _nothing_. Absolutely nothing. Not even fingerprints or a grain of dust. This was the cleanest place I've ever seen. Any cleaner and it would have been a sterile lab – and that after this Miss Grosvenor had lived there for two years!"

"Two years, huh?" Lestrade rubbed his burning eyes with the heel of his hand tiredly. "She moved in at the same time Dr. Stamford hired her as a part-time receptionist, then?"

"On the same day, actually, according to the contract the landlady kindly showed us," Donovan replied. "Oh, and just to let you know, sir, I've checked her personal background and guess what? Miss Irene Grosvenor doesn't exist. She never has."

"I'm not surprised," Lestrade said in weary amusement. "That's the name of some posh secretary in one of the Agatha Christie novels… _A Pocketful of Rye_, if I'm not mistaken. Whoever these people are, they're clearly fond of the classics."

"As long as we don't run into Hercule Poirot," Donovan muttered darkly. "One self-absorbed freak is more than enough; and we've got our own here."

"Truer words were never spoken," a cheerful voice exclaimed and Sherlock swept into Lestrade's office with flourish. "Why would you need Hercule Poirot when you can have Sherlock Holmes?"

Donovan muttered something unintelligible in response, which Sherlock ignored.

"Well, Detective Inspector?" he asked. "What did Molly find? Those suicides weren't suicides at all, am I right? They were all murders. Well-planned, cold-blooded murders."

"At least the first three certainly were," Lestrade admitted reluctantly. "Mr. Blessington's autopsy's still going on. But I have no doubt that the results would be the same."

"Death by strangulation, yet caused by a wire rather than by the rope from which the bodies were hanging, right?" Sherlock asked.

Donovan and Lestrade stared at him open-mouthed.

"How…?" the Detective Inspector finally asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "The strangulation marks are markedly different caused by a wire or a rope, although the murderer did a remarkably good job of overimposing the wire marks with the rope marks. Also killing somebody with an old-fashioned, hand-held garrotte, which, I assume, has been used in all these so-called suicide cases, has become extremely rare in the recent decades. A shame, really; it's a highly efficient, quiet and elegant murder weapon, unlike the guns and blunt objects that have become so popular. The criminal class really has no imagination nowadays."

"If you're done drooling over the murder weapon, perhaps you could tell us what wild theories you've come up _this_ time," Donovan scowled.

Sherlock grinned at her like a shark.

"When could I ever say _no_ to you, Sally?" he threw himself into an armchair in his usual theatrical manner and launched into a lengthy explanation, seemingly without the need to breathe between the long, run-in sentences.

"The sequence of the events was easily reconstructed," he began. "I'm actually surprised that you haven't managed to figure it out without me, but it seems I've expected too much from you again. Anyway, there were six people involved in these serial suicides – or should we say serial murders, since that's what they were? Four of them are already dead; that leaves us with the two still alive. One of them is without doubt the elderly man who masqueraded as poor Mike Stamford's cataleptic Russian patient. The other one could only be the person we still know nothing of."

"The elusive Miss Grosvenor," Lestrade said. It was only logical.

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Whose true name, I assume, could only be Elise Worthingdon."

For a moment Lestrade couldn't actually breathe.

"That would mean we've finally stumbled upon the puppeteers behind the Worthingdon Bank business," he finally said.

Sherlock nodded.

"Then the first three victims had to be the gang members who'd got a fifteen-year sentence, each: Biddle, Hayward and Moffat," Lestrade said.

Sherlock nodded again.

"Then Blessington must have actually been Sutton," the Detective Inspector continued.

Sherlock nodded a third time.

"But who could the old man be, the one who played the Russian patient," Lestrade asked.

"I've no idea; not yet," Sherlock admitted. "He could be related the fifth gang member, Cartwright, which would explain why he's still alive; Miss Worthingdon has no reason to murder a relative of her late lover and partner in crime. Or he could have been hired for just the one deception; which, in turn, would explain why Moffat, his false 'son', was watching him like a hawk."

"We'll know more when the fingerprints from Dr. Stamford's practice have been fully processed," Lestrade said. "I wouldn't be surprised it the older 'Russian' turned out to be a close relative of Cartwright. He was orphaned at the age of ten, if I remember correctly, and grew up with an uncle, who was an infamous safe-knacker," he looked at Donovan. "Put Elise Worthingdon and Percy Ward on the Most Wanted list. We cannot allow them to leave the country."

"Right away, sir," Donovan was already heading off, but she turned back for a moment from the threshold. "Can I hope that you'll explain me what this Worthingdon Bank business is about, sir? It seems to have happened before my time, and I'd like to know what – and _whom_ – are we dealing with here."

~TBC~


	23. Part 23: The Worthingdon Bank Business

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 23 – The Worthingdon Bank Business**

Two days later Elise Worthingdon and Percy Ward were arrested in Dover when they tried to board the ferry to France. It took the police another week to wrap things up, collect all the evidence and get a confession out of them – not that the latter would have been particularly difficult. They actually seemed _proud_ of their achievement.

When all the paperwork was dealt with and the case had been handed over to the court, Detective Inspector Lestrade invited the interested parties into his office to put together the bigger picture for them – _and_ with their help.

With _help_ meaning mostly Sherlock, of course.

"So, Sherlock," he said when everyone had found a chair to sit. "Talk to us. Tell us what we've missed, although it was evidently right before our eyes."

"Actually, sir," Donovan interrupted before Sherlock could have opened his mouth (and earning an annoyed glare for it), "I'd like you to tell us about this Worthindon Bank business first. I looked up the case, of course, but an eyewitness report would be more conclusive. I understand that you were in the Force already."

"As a bloody beginner, breaking up bar fights, yeah," Lestrade replied. "All right, then, let me summarise things for those _not_ born before the Stone Age. Almost eleven years ago, the daughter of Sir William Worthingdon, Elise – then barely seventeen years old – was kidnapped… as we learned later, with her full consent. The kidnappers demanded seven hundred thousand pounds, and Sir William, a widower who doted on his only child, was more than willing to pay. However, something went wrong with the delivery of the ransom, and Mr. Tobin, the junior partner of the bank – who, according to Sir William's plan, was to marry Elise as soon as she'd come of age – was murdered. The kidnappers got away with the money and Elise remained missing almost to the current day."

"I understand that the police arrested all five men involved in the case," Donovan said. Lestrade nodded.

"Yes, but the evidence against them was by no means conclusive. We could never have nailed them down, hadn't this Blessington, or rather Sutton – who, by the way, was the worst of the gang – turned against his pals and betrayed them. On his evidence, Cartwright was given a lifelong sentence, as he was the one who'd killed Mr. Tobin, and the others got fifteen years each," he paused and looked at Sherlock. "I'll leave the rest to you."

"Well," Sherlock began with his usual enthusiasm for a complicated case, "Biddle, Hayward and Moffat got out of prison earlier this year, which was some years before their full sentence. Cartwright died four years ago in a fight within the prison, and there's some evidence that the other three were involved somehow. It could never be proved, of course, the inmates wouldn't tell the guards, but for everyone with eyes to see, it was pretty evident."

"But why would they turn against their own pal?" Mike Stamford asked.

Sherlock gave him a pitying glance.

"Really, Mike, what's going on in that funny little brain of yours? It must be so _boring_! They were pissed off at him because of the murder of Mr. Tobin. That was where things went wrong – and besides, there was the matter of the seven hundred thousand pounds that were never found."

"Who had the money anyway?" Mike asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why, Miss Worthingdon, of course, do try to use your imagination! It was her plan all along. She didn't want to marry proper and boring Mr. Tobin; so she pretended to wanting to run away with Cartwright, who was an idiot and did exactly what she wanted of him: killed Mr. Tobin and got her the ransom money, with which she intended to begin a new life, under a different name, in a different country. France, I suppose, as she had gone to school there and knew it fairly well."

"So, why kill the others from the gang then?" Donovan asked. "Did they got out too early, before she could have her plans finalised, and demanded their part of the booty?"

Sherlock gave her a surprised look. "Sally, you're actually not half as stupid as the rest of the police! Yes, exactly that's why. Of course, there was the small complication that Blessington, or rather Sutton, had managed to lay hand on a considerable part of the ransom money and Elise had no intention to let him keep it."

"Wait!" Mike interrupted. "How can you know _that_?"

Sherlock looked at Donovan. "Tell him. You were the one who found it."

"The money was in the safe at Brook Street, Dr. Stamford," Donovan explained. "Almost two hundred thousand pounds; the numbers had been noted in the bank before paying the ransom. Sutton had that safe made and the house rented long before he'd have 'invested' in you."

"You mean he had it all the time and yet he kept taking three quarters of everything I earned in the practice?" Stamford exclaimed, his usually so kind face red with anger.

Sherlock gave him a jaundiced look. "Well, he wasn't a very nice man, Mike, in case you hadn't noticed it. There was a reason why his pals hated him so much, beyond the fact that he betrayed them all. In any case, Miss Worthingdon kept tag on Sutton all the time, without getting close to him, cause she planned to get the money in the last moment before leaving the country."

"Why did she apply for the receptionist job, then?" Mike asked. "That brought her directly within Sutton's reach. Wasn't she afraid that he'd recognize her?"

"Yes, but people, especially young people, do change a great deal in eleven years; and she did her best to look even more different," Sherlock said. "She grew out her hair, bleached it blonde, walked around in high heels to appear much taller than she actually was, wore blue contact lenses… it was a perfect illusion. And she needed the rest of the money for…" he looked at Lestrade questioningly.

"To pay the last rate fort he vineyard and the house she'd bought in the Provence years ago," Lestrade supplied.

"So, she needed the money," Sherlock continued. "But Sutton was too suspicious; in the two years she worked for you, she couldn't get into his room. Not without giving her true identity away. And certainly not without help."

"And the fact that her three henchmen got out of prison before their full term served her purposes nicely," Lestrade added. "They were more than willing to hunt down the traitor. They thought she didn't know about their part in Cartwright's death."

"But she didn't really love Cartwright, did she?" Mike asked with a frown. "Why would she be so bent on revenge?"

"She wasn't," Sherlock said. "In fact, she was quite glad to have one less aspirant for the money. But she let the other three believe that she was still grieving for Cartwright, cause it kept them in fear what she might do with them, should she find out the truth."

"So it was she who let the killers into the house," Donovan said. "As Dr. Stamford's receptionist, she knew the doctor's schedule at _Bart's_ and that he wouldn't be home in that night."

"But Blessington… I mean, Sutton… must have known that the other three have been released," Mike said. "It stood in the newspapers. _That_ was what caused his initial panic attack."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course. All that talk about the burglary in West End was merely an excuse to enhance security in the house."

"Well, this all sounds convincing," Mike said. "There's one thing I still don't understand, though. Who killed all these people, and how did they do it?"

"Oh, that!" Sherlock said nonchalantly. "That was Miss Worthingdon, of course."

~TBC~


	24. Part 24: The Final Deduction

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **We are still dealing with events from the original ACD story here. And yes, there are still considerable changes.

* * *

**Part 24 – The Final Deduction**

Everyone present – save for Lestrade who'd already read all interrogation protocols – stared at Sherlock open-mouthedly.

"Miss Worthingdon?" Mike repeated incredulously. "That cute little thing who could barely manage to keep the patient database straight, should be a calculating, cold-blooded serial killer? You're kidding, right?"

"Not at all," Sherlock assured him. "She was the mastermind behind the whole kidnapping affair. She wanted her freedom and she wanted money – lots of it – and she wasn't willing to share."

"And we could never prove any of it," Lestrade added sourly. "Only Cartwright knew about her part in the scheme, and he swore high and holy that she'd been an innocent victim, cause he still believed that she'd break him out of prison and they'll start a new life together."

"Idiot!" Sherlock commented scathingly. "As if a girl like her, born to big money, bright, ruthless and determined, would have _anything_ to do with a petty criminal like him! She only kept feeding lies to him in prison cause she knew he'd tell the others about their so-called plans and the others, quite rightly I'm afraid, would realise that they won't see a single penny upon their release. Oh, she's good. She's more than good, she's brilliant!"

"Well, not so brilliant after all, seeing how we've caught her and all that," Donovan commented, but Sherlock waved off her comment.

"Technicalities. The plan, Sally, the plan was pure genius, don't you see? She could be certain that her father would pay, so she had the money. She'd had Cartwright wrapped around her finger so completely that he killed Mr. Tobin for her without a second thought… or a first one, considering what an idiot he was. So she had the unwanted suitor, the one chosen by her father to run the bank after his death, out of her hair. Sir William had a weak heart, two failed bypasses, it was reasonable to assume that after such dramatic events he'd suffer a lethal heart attack, which he conveniently had, right after the gang's trial, so she had her freedom, too, at last."

"She planned the death of her own father cold-bloodedly?" Mike gasped.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why not? The old man didn't care for _her_ wishes, either. She was not willing to become a pawn in the game to save the bank. She never cared about the bank, which, by the way, tethered at the edge of financial collapse already; so she simply removed the unnecessary pieces from the board."

There was such coldness in his voice that the others began to shiver.

"And people wonder why I hate working with psychopaths," Donovan muttered, shooting him a dirty look.

"Sociopath," Sherlock corrected coldly. "A high-functioning one, for which your incompetent, idiotic lot should be grateful."

"But I still don't understand how Miss Grosvenor… I mean, Miss Worthingdon could strangulate four grown men, one of them as big an oaf as this fake Russian," Mike said hurriedly, before Donovan could have hit Sherlock, which seemed a distinct possibility at the moment. "It seems impossible to me. That would require great physical strength."

"Not if she used a garrotte," Sherlock said. "Have you ever seen a garrotte? It is basically a hand-held ligature of chain, rope, wire, scarf or fishing line used to strangle a person. Well, wire in our case. A stick may be used to tighten the garrotte; Miss Worthingdon's weapon was custom-made, with a comfortable handle on each end of the wire, making it easy to handle and very efficient. When the victim is clueless and the murderer quick, it can be over within ten seconds. So, you see," he concluded triumphantly, "it's a murder weapon eminently practical for the female use – or for people without considerable strength."

"Thank you," Mike said dryly. "It's comforting to know that I used to have a seemingly harmless receptionist willing and able to murder men twice her size with a piece of wire. I feel much better now."

"She needed help with hanging them properly, of course," Sherlock continued, ignoring him, "and that's where our Mr. Percy Ward comes into the picture. He was actually very fond of Cartwright and thought that the others have deserved their fate for betraying and killing his nephew, respectively."

"Until he realised how Miss Worthingdon had been using him all the time," Lestrade added, "in which moment he almost suffered a _genuine_ cataleptic attack."

"What will happen with all the money in the safe?" Donovan asked. "With the bank gone, the two hundred thousand pounds would go to the clients to compensate them for their losses, I assume, but what about the rest?"

"Theoretically it would belong to Dr. Stamford," Lestrade asked. "It's _his_ money, after all. That fact would be hard to prove, though, I'm afraid, as there's only proof for it being gibe to him by his patients but not that Sutton took it from him afterwards."

"Well, I couldn't exactly demand a written contract, even if he'd been willing to set up one," Mike said glumly. "The whole agreement was... unusual, to say the least."

"Oh, don't be so dim-witted!" Sherlock closed his eyes as if such amount of stupidity had been painful for him to watch. "You can prove the income, right? You do have everything in your books, don't you?"

"Yes, but…"

"No buts. You can prove a certain amount of money being given to you. Now, if you say that Sutton – whom you thought to be a genuine patient – put it in his safe for you, cause of all those burglaries in West End, who can prove you false?"

"The Freak does have a point," Donovan admitted reluctantly. "As long as you don't claim more than that which stands in your books, Dr. Stamford, nobody can take from you the money that is rightfully yours. You've earned it honestly, after all. And now that you'll have to pay the rent and the bills yourself you'll sorely need it, too."

"Unless you want to move the practice to a less expensive neighbourhood," Lestrade added.

"I would, were it up to me," Mike confessed. "But my patients would hardly follow me somewhere else, and I've got a certain reputation to protect. So I'll have to see how I can solve the financial problems long-term. Getting my money back would help to bridge over the first months indeed."

"You can always get a flatshare," Sherlock suggested. "You're the type who'd enjoy having somebody in the house. Having tea together… going to a pub… watching crap telly… that sort of thing."

Mike raised an eyebrow. "Are you volunteering?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Sherlock replied without opening his eyes. "I'd die from boredom within a week in such a dull neighbourhood. Besides, who'd want _me_ as a flatmate? Not even my landlords can tolerate me longer than a few months."

"Yeah; one has to wonder why," Donovan commented dryly. Sherlock ignored her as per usual.

"Well, I must be off," he suddenly declared, jumping to his feet with renewed energy. "That ninja butler of my brother apparently found a potential new flat for me; and since he's a pedantic idiot, I must take a look myself before I'd make up my mind. Good-bye, Lestrade; should you get a case that isn't painfully boring, you know where you find me."

And with that, he strode out with long, purposeful strides, coattails fluttering after him.

"_Ninja_ butler?" Donovan repeated with a perplexed expression.

Mike shook his head. "Don't even try to understand. I've given up making any sense of him when he was five."

~TBC~


	25. Part 25: Inventory

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **The various artefacts on Ianto's inventory list have been identified courtesy of the Props list on the Sherlockology website.

* * *

**Part 25 – Inventory**

"How is the 221B project going?" Mycroft Holmes asked from his butler… archivist… librarian… whatever, who'd come to fetch him from the _Diogenes Club_.

"Excellently, sir," Ianto politely held the door for him open, so that he could settle in comfortably. "Mrs. Hudson was more than willing to let me move the things of your…" he paused for a significant moment before continuing, "_brother_ into the flat already. She might even be gently persuaded to allow us to replace that truly awful mauve wallpaper in the living room, as long as she wouldn't have to pay for the redecoration."

"Consider it covered," Mycroft said in a somewhat bored tone; then a warning glance appeared in his eyes. "And be watchful with those emphatic little pauses of yours. Sherlock will notice them. He's not an idiot, you know."

"If you say so, sir," Ianto replied with bland disinterest.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. He had nothing against a well-nurtured grudge, but Ianto really needed to be more subtle about it. Not that people would wonder why he disliked Sherlock – he wouldn't be the only one – but they would wonder why he, as Sherlock's brother tolerated such a behaviour from the side of someone who worked for the family.

"Do you have a list of the items that supposedly have belonged to Sherlock for a decade?" he then asked, deciding to discuss Ianto's behaviour in depth another time.

Ianto wordlessly handed his boss his smartphone with said list displayed on the small screen before starting the engine. There was, most efficiently, a picture linked to each item on the list, sparing Mycroft the necessity to physically take a look at them – _or_ at the flat itself.

"A Prior ZoomMaster65 microscope," Mycroft murmured. "Base model… good choice, very good choice indeed. There are fancier models, but with a magnification between 3.5x and 225x, coupled with the choice of three different base stands, one can study almost any specimen with this one."

"Sometimes you just can't beat the classics, sir," Ianto commented.

"Very true," Mycroft scrolled down the list, ignoring such irrelevant things as furniture, floor lamps and mirrors. Then something small-ish caught his eye. "A _black_ globe? That's unusual."

"It's free spinning and very decorative, sir," Ianto pointed out the advantages of said item. "And the dial on top allows one to calculate daylight hours around the world, which is suitably useful for detective work, I'm told. Besides, shouldn't be a Time Lord – even a former one – always conscious of, you know, _time_?"

Mycroft closed his eyes for a painful moment. "Mr. Jones, has anyone told you that your sense of humour is of the most atrocious sort?"

Ianto shrugged. "Jack seemed to like it, sir."

"Yes, well, I'd thank you if you didn't compare _me_ with Jack Harkness, Captain of the worst puns and innuendo," Mycroft said dryly. "And while we're at it, what's moved you to purchase a bust of Goethe for my brother?"

"I thought he'd perhaps identify with Goethe's renown as a polymath, since he seems to believe he knows everything better than other people," Ianto replied. "I also got him an annotated copy of Goethe's _The Theory of Colours_, in which the author examines the reactions and perceptions of humans to colour. Thought he might find it interesting."

"I see," Mycroft said slowly. "You _are_ aware of the fact, of course, that Gallifreyans have different perceptions of light and colour?"

"Quite so, sir," Ianto said. "But you've both got human bodies now. Knowing how he's _supposed_ to react might help him to actually _do_ so, even if his subconscious happens to send him different signals."

"That's an excellent idea," Mycroft admitted, slightly annoyed that it hadn't come from him. "And I like the periodic table and the photo of Mendeleyev. Nice touch. Nice touch indeed."

"Well, you gave him an avid interest in chemistry, sir," Ianto reminded him, "not to mention a somewhat explosive history of disastrous experiments. I just added the background details."

"Well done, Mr. Jones, well done," Mycroft scrolled further down, frowned and took a second look at the next item. "Can you tell me what on Earth is a bison skull doing mounted on the wall of my brother's future living room? A _black_ bison skull, wearing _headphones_?"

Ianto chuckled. "Anthea had to hide the surveillance cameras _somewhere_, sir."

"I hate to point out the obvious to you, but that's probably the first place where he'll be checking," Mycroft said.

"Exactly," Ianto replied. "Which is why the actual surveillance devices – tiny little Torchwood-issue ones – are hidden within the skull itself, providing us with an almost 360-degree view of the living room through the eye and nose openings."

"You're a sneaky bastard, Ianto," Mycroft said with a touch of genuine admiration.

He could see Ianto's smile in the side mirror. "I do my best, sir."

"How did you get a _black_ bison skull anyway?" Mycroft then asked.

Ianto smiled again. "It was a fairly ordinary skull when I purchased it online, sir. We had to spray it black, though, with a special isolation layer, so that interferences from the telly or the mobile phones won't compromise the working of the cameras."

"Good thinking," Mycroft gave the portable, wide-screen Samsung LE 32B450 LCD-TV an appreciating glance. "Nice telly, by the way."

"Thank you, sir. Some of the old furniture from the main living room has been moved downstairs to the 221C flat, as it wasn't fitting for a young man. After the suicide/murder case it's unlikely that Mrs. Hudson would be able to rent the flat out for a while anyway. And if she can, at least there would be a couple of comfortable armchairs that previously weren't."

"Good," Mycroft said. "Has my dear brother agreed to take the flat? He can be… obnoxious sometimes, just to be contrary."

"There are things not even the chameleon arch can change, I see," Ianto replied with a grim smile. "He didn't give me a final answer yet. I think mostly because he's reluctant to accept financial help from you and can't touch his funds without your approval. But he seemed to like the place, so it's a question of finding a suitable flatmate, I think."

"In which case we should keep a close watch on all potential candidates," Mycroft said.

Ianto nodded. "But of course, sir. Mummy and Anthea are looking into it. Having control over the whole CCTV network is such a useful thing. Even if it is, you know, basically illegal."

"Legality is fluid," Mycroft replied airily.

As the traffic lights had just turned red and he had to stop the car anyway, Ianto allowed himself to turn back and give his boss a direct look. A rather sober one.

"That's exactly what worries me, sir," he said. "Wasn't that how Torchwood fell? A precedence has already been made; what makes you sure that you'll always be able to keep things under control?"

~TBC~


	26. Part 26: Homeward Bound

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **The following adventure is my version of "A Study in Pink". It's closer to the unaired pilot than to the actual episode, but with an entirely different solution, as you'll see.

* * *

**Part 26 – Homeward Bound**

The therapist's office was a subdued little room, kept in broken whites, beiges and browns, with two large, vaulted windows, bolted with a decorative white grille. They had lace curtains and identical bouquets in identical glass vases standing in the exact middle of each windowsill. Strange what unimportant details one could observe when one was uncomfortable.

There was a low coffee table right in front of the windows, but they weren't sitting at it. They were sitting in the middle of the room, in identical armchairs, facing each other.

The therapist herself – _Ella_, her name was Ella Thompson, he reminded himself – was a somewhat harried-looking black woman, whose hair had been straightened and back-combed, so that it hung slightly over her brow in the fashion of an anime character. She wore lots of cheap jewellery: stub-shaped earrings, multiple rows of glass bead strings around her neck, bracelets and an unusual, quadratic silver ring with a read stone.

A large cashmere shawl in muted blues, reds and browns was wrapped around her shoulders; she obviously wore it instead of a jacket, with a calf-length dark shirt and moderately high heels. She sat relaxed, crossing a leg over the other knee, as opposed to his ramrod straight military stance.

Which didn't hinder him in fidgeting impatiently, though.

God, this was such a waste of time! He should be out, hunting for a job – in the unlikely case there were any openings for an invalided-out army doctor – or trying to find a flat that he could afford on his army pension (which was hardly likely in London, but still), not sitting here, listening to the condescending nonsense of his therapist, just cause she was the only one with at least a pretence of professional interest for his well-being.

Oh, Harry _had_ tried. She'd come to the airport to welcome him back, had given him her old phone – a gift from Clara, of a time when they had still been together – even offering to move in with her until he found something of his own.

He had politely rejected the offer, of course. The last thing he wanted was to watch her drinking herself into an early grave. Or listening to her tirades against Mary.

She'd never liked Mary and couldn't understand why he would marry someone much younger than himself and coming from a vastly different culture. He never cared. He'd loved Mary – in fact he still did – and they had managed well enough… until the nay-sayers from both sides had destroyed their happiness.

While he'd been lying in that dirty field hospital, delirious from the pain and the morphine, his memories of Mary had been so _vivid_. He could almost feel and _taste_ her.

For the first time in his life, he understood how frighteningly easy it would be to become addicted to the stuff. If it could bring Mary back, could make him relive the happiness they had once known…

He'd snapped out of it once he'd recovered enough to bear the pain without the morphine, of course. Harry's downward spiral had warned him off from becoming an addict himself. But there _were_ nights when he lay awake, trying to escape the inevitable nightmares by denying himself the luxury of sleep, and in his half-dazed state he imagined that he could feel Mary's oh-so-soft touch and smell the faint scent of spices always clinging to her silky hair.

Someone cleared her throat and he realized that his therapist – _Ella_, think of her as _Ella_! – must have asked something from him. Probably more than just once, too.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he murmured. "You were saying?"

"I asked how your blog's going," she repeated patiently.

"Oh, that!"

He'd actually taken the dratted laptop out of the upper chest drawer and powered it up, but the only thing still appearing on the blank page was the title of the site: **The Personal Blog of Dr. John Watson**.

A dull title if there ever was one, dull and completely void of imagination. Perhaps he should change it.

"Good," he lied impassively. "It's going good. Very good."

"Written much?" Ella was clearly not believing him.

"Not a word," he admitted without remorse.

He was a lousy liar; and besides, he found the mere idea ridiculous. He wasn't some giggly teenaged girl who needed to discuss every tiny aspect of her meaningless life online with her similarly-minded friends.

Ella sighed and he prepared himself for another lecturing about the necessary of dealing with his issues. As if writing a ruddy blog could bring Mary back. Or stop Harry's drinking. Or help him getting a job or finding a flat that he could actually _afford_.

As if he could bear the thought of complete strangers reading about the things that were tearing him apart.

"John, it's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life," Ella began, and he had to fight the urge to roll his eyes in exasperation. Hard.

What was it with people and their need to state the obvious?

As if he didn't know how hard it would be to get used to England again, after five years of shooting and getting shot at, killing people and saving people, amputating limbs in a tent, delivering babies on the roadside… or watching helplessly the wounded bleed to death under his hands because there was nothing, absolutely _nothing_ that he could have done to save them.

Yeah, sure, he needed the reminder like he needed a broken leg, on top of all his other problems.

"… and it will help _so_ much to write down everything that's happening to you," Ella continued in that condescending manner all therapists seemed to have perfected to a T.

He thought of the bleak little bed-sit provided by the military for the time of his recovery; that he'd have to leave as soon as he got a clean bill of health, which was only a matter of a week or so, since he _was_ healed, as much as he'd ever be. He thought of the bleak future before him; of a future in which he no longer had any roots, any true purpose – just a mundane _existence_ without hope.

"_Nothing_ happens to me," he said with such a flat finality that it finally shut her up.

The really sad part was that it was depressingly true.

Without waiting for her reaction, he rose from the armchair, grabbed his cane and hobbled out of the practice, determined _not_ to come back ever again. He didn't need a therapist to treat him like a child. Harry managed the job on her own just fine.

~TBC~


	27. Part 27: A Walk in the Park

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **I hesitated a little concerning the chance meeting of John and Mike Stamford; whether it should take place on the Piccadilly, like in the unaired pilot, or in the park, like in the actual episode. As you can see, I chose the park in the end – but let them have lunch at the _Criterion_.

* * *

**Part 27 – A Walk in the Park**

Mike Stamford was enjoying his well-earned lunch break, sitting on a bench in Russell Square Gardens, near the _Criterion Coffee Shop_. He'd just finished a series of examinations in the Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital for his next publication and wanted to relax for a moment, before he'd go to the _Criterion_ for lunch.

There he sat, in the rare and welcome autumn sunshine, eyeing the headlines of his newspaper when he spotted the man. Actually, it was the _limp_ that he spotted first. Being a doctor, his eyes automatically picked out all possible illnesses and injuries in his surroundings.

As soon as he focused on the man, the second thing he noticed was the nagging familiarity. Not the limp or the military haircut, of course, he'd never known anyone who belonged to the military. But there was something in that short, stout body, that dishwater-blond hair, now generously streaked with grey, those small eyes, now surrounded by dark circles, and that slightly upturned nose in that round face that had an eerie resemblance to a mercat…

The thought wasn't quite finished yet when Mike was already rising from his bench.

"John?" he cried.

The man hobbled past the bench, without noticing him.

"John Watson?" Mike called after him.

Now the man stopped, turned around and looked at him with a frown, clearly not recognising him.

"Stamford," Mike indicated at himself with a hand laid upon his own breast. "Mike Stamford. We were at _Bart's_ together."

The man with the haunted eyes that seemed so… alien in that otherwise familiar face shook Mike's extended hand somewhat awkwardly, clearly embarrassed that he still couldn't recognise him.

"Yes, sorry," he mumbled uncomfortably. "Yes, Mike, hello."

Fortunately for him, Mike was used to such reactions from the people he hadn't met for a while and took no offence.

"Yeah, I know," he laughed good-naturedly. "I got fat."

"No, no," the strangely different John protested, but Mike waved off his awkward protests.

"Don't worry about it. You know how it is: too many long hours in the lab, little to no exercise, too much comfort food…" he trailed off, suddenly realising that he was talking to the wrong person about such things.

John, short and wiry and obviously no longer used to the comforts of a settled life in London, smiled wryly. "No, not really; I can't say that I do."

"Oh, right," it was Mike's turn to be embarrassed. "I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at," his glance wandered to the cane upon which John was leaning rather heavily. "What happened?"

John paused, as if trying to find the fitting answer – and giving up.

"I got shot," he finally said in a dry manner, shrugging slightly.

"Oh, my…" now Mike was truly embarrassed. "I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry… I didn't know… Listen, why don't we go to the _Criterion_ and have lunch together? I still have got about an hour of my lunch break; we could catch up on each other and stuff."

"Mike, I don't know…" John seemed _extremely_ uncomfortable, and Mike understood that he probably wouldn't be able to afford lunch at a place like the _Criterion_ anymore.

"Don't worry about the bill," he added hurriedly. "My treat."

John became stark white by the mere idea of letting him cover the bill. "Mike, I can't possibly accept…"

"Oh, don't be like that!" Mike interrupted. "I've had a bit of good luck lately, thanks to an old friend, so I can afford to buy lunch for another old friend. We haven't seen each other for how long? Five years? Six?"

"Almost eight by now," John corrected.

"Well, there you have it," Mike said, desperate to do something for the so obviously broken man whom he'd once called a friend. "You _can _let me buy lunch once in eight years. C'mon, John, don't be so bloody stubborn, you can return the favour once you've settled down again."

* * *

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting in the _Criterion_, having their first glass of wine. Despite his previous protests, John didn't actually stand out of the clientele like a sore thumb. Sure, he wasn't wearing a suit like most people there – like Mike himself, in fact – but he was dressed stylishly enough in those beige pants and that light brown leather jacket. In fact, he barely appeared self-conscious as he sat opposite Mike, sipping his red wine.

"Are you still at _Bart's_ then?" he asked, after the waiter had offered to him the menu card and he'd ordered spaghetti carbonara.

"Teaching now, yeah," Mike accepted a roll from the waiter and opened his own menu card. "Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them," he added reflexively, without any real heat, just to keep up appearances – not that he'd need it with John, of all people.

The waiter got their orders and left. Mike bit into the roll to placate his rumbling stomach until their lunches would arrive. God, he really ought to move more and eat less carbs. But that was the problem with New Year's resolutions. They never lasted beyond January.

"What about you?" he then asked. "Just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"

John shook his head. "I can't afford London on an army pension," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

Mike stared at him in open-mouthed shock. "But… but you couldn't bear to be anywhere else," he protested. "That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah I'm not _that_ John Watson anymore," John replied with an indifferent shrug.

"How's Mary coping?" Mike asked, remembering his friend's young, beautiful and exotic wife. "Is she willing to move somewhere else with you?"

John barked a short laugh. "Unlikely. She divorced me almost five years ago."

"_What_?" Mike couldn't believe his own ears. "Why?"

John shrugged indifferently again. "I'm not really sure. I think it had something to do with her family. I was already in Afghanistan when the divorce got through and only learned that she'd sold our house when I got back. We haven't had any contact since I left."

"That's sad, man," Mike said after a lengthy pause. "So you don't even have a place to live, eh?"

"Not at the moment," John admitted, "and I'll have to leave my military bed-sit soon."

"Couldn't Harry help?" Mike asked tentatively.

"Yeah, like that's gonna happen," John returned with a humourless grin. "You know Harry…"

"Yeah, I do," Mike briefly remembered the pretty blonde he used to have a crush on during their shared years at _Bart's_ – and what she'd become since then – and understood that John wouldn't go to her for help, no matter what. "You could get a flatshare or something, though."

John rolled his eyes in tolerant amusement. "C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate?"

Mike had an eerie moment of _déja vu_… so strongly that he fell silent abruptly. Abruptly enough for John to notice it and look at him questioningly. "_What_?"

"Well," Mike said slowly, "you're the second person to say that to me lately."

At that, John raised an interested eyebrow. "Who's the first?"

~TBC~


	28. Part 28: First Sight

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Sherlock's e-mails and the addresses where they come can be seen on the computer screen when he answers his mail in the unaired pilot. The site mangled them, as usual, but with a little imagination they can be mentally reconstructed. *g*

* * *

**Part 28 – First Sight**

Sherlock Holmes was frustrated. He'd hoped that his work with the police would get easier with the passing of years; unfortunately, reality had proved him wrong.

Their limitations were more annoying than he'd expected at the beginning. The sharpness of his genius-level mind, his encyclopaedic knowledge and his complete emotional detachment had alienated the coppers in a very short time. For many of them, he'd soon become _the Freak_ – or the psychopath. They used him – reluctantly, cause even their simple minds realized that it was in their own interest – but they couldn't really stand him.

Also, he'd flown out of seven flats in little more than two years. No landlord was willing to tolerate his experiments or his playing the violin at 3pm in the morning, for hours. And each time, his insufferable brother gloated more openly.

He really, really needed a new flat; _and_ he needed a flatmate. Not for financial reasons only; he was fairly sure that Mycroft would, however reluctantly, release some of his founds, if for no other reason then to prevent him from living on the street and turning to drugs again.

But he never worked well alone, despite his superior intellect. He _needed_ an assistant, a companion… a sounding board, somebody to test his ideas on. The skull really wasn't a satisfying partner for that.

Meeting Mike Stamford again had seemed to be the answer first. But Mike had turned out too clumsy, too focused on his teaching, on his research; and he was most definitely not mobile enough for his purposes. Mike would never give up that ridiculous, overpriced practice of his. He would never move out of that ridiculous, overpriced house of his, just to become Sherlock's assistant and flatmate.

People like Mike Stamford preferred a dull, predictable life. All the man was still lacking was a dull wife.

Sherlock grimaced in annoyance as he booted up one of the lab's outdated computers to check his e-mail. Molly had promised him coffee; where the hell was she tarrying? Was it really so complicated to get a cup of coffee in a hospital? Without a chance to smoke, he needed heightened caffeine intake, was it so hard to understand?

He shook his head and blinked several times to focus because opening his inbox. There were three letters only, one of them from the address of that insufferable brother of his.

_An impossible situation_, the subject line said. Sherlock pulled a face. He didn't need to actually read the letter to know what it was about. Or that it wasn't really from his brother; Mycroft preferred to text. His correspondence was handled by that overzealous PA of him. Not Anthea, of course, who couldn't be separated from her BlackBerry; the redhead with the obnoxious manners.

Sherlock clicked _Reply_ and sent a message to mycroft deux . org, without opening and reading the original one: _When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth._ He hit the _Send_ button with a dark little smile. That would teach Mycroft's minions not to bother him with their petty little problems.

Then he turned his attention to the next letter, which had come from Detective Inspector Gregson, Lestrade's main rival, concerning some church bell theft. A fairly mundane crime, truly, but the interpersonal relationships in the background had been most interesting.

_If you can see the church from the bedroom window, Davies is your man,_ Sherlock typed and sent the reply to gregson hnu . co .uk.

The third letter came from lestrade strade .com, with the urgent plea to call the Detective Inspector as soon as possible. Sherlock deleted the message with a wry grin, without answering it. Eventually, he would help Lestrade, of course. But it would be a mistake to make the man believe that he'd be at his beck and call all the time.

Then he opened a new window and started a new mail, addressed to Mycroft, but typing JONES in the subject line. That way, his brother's ninja butler would get the message directly. _Will look at flat tomorrow. SH_, he wrote and hit the _Send_ button.

Then he signed out and walked over to the microscope to check on the state of his latest experiment… only to grimace, remembering that he'd promised Detective Inspector Gregson the solution of another crime.

Oh, well, a text message would do… or rather it would _have_, had he any sign on his phone. If he hadn't forgotten to recharge it. He scowled in annoyance. Now he'd have to wait until Molly _finally_ arrived with the stupid coffee.

Where the hell _was_ she anyway?

His thoughts were interrupted by two different sets of footsteps approaching the lab. One of them clearly belonged to Mike Stamford; few people had such a heavy yet brisk way to walk, and certainly no-one else at _Bart's_.

The other one, though… it was interesting. The rhythm was broken – someone with a fairly bad limp – and accentuated by the frequent knocking of a cane against the floor. Yet even with the limp, the second person had a fast, steady pace; somebody much shorter than Mike if they had to make such effort to keep up with him. Mike really wasn't the fastest walker.

The door opened. Pretending to focus on his microscope, Sherlock risked a quick glance from the corner of his eye and saw Mike Stamford walk in, wearing his ever-present white lab coat. With him came a man about the same age but a good head shorter, wearing jeans, a blue shirt and a brown leather jacket.

The man's stance and haircut practically screamed military. His brief exchange with Mike, as he looked around with interest, mentioning that the place had changed a lot since his time, revealed him as an Army doctor, presumably trained at _Bart's_. His face was tanned, but there were not tan lines above his wrist as he reached out to hand his phone to Sherlock, so he didn't get his tan on some exotic beach. Must have served somewhere in the Middle East, then. He used a cane while walking indeed, but the leg didn't seem to bother him when he stood, so it had to be at least partially psychosomatic. However, the way he seemed to favour his left shoulder told about a real injury; one that still gave him trouble.

He was a short and rather unremarkable man with greying, sandy hair, in unattractive clothes – Sherlock knew he was being snobbish, but really wearing a T-shirt beneath under that blue shirt spoke of a terrible fashion sense. And yet there was steely strength under that seemingly plain surface. Strength and a rare sense of honour. Probably unwavering loyalty, too – _if_ one managed to earn it.

It was a strange thought, having to earn somebody's loyalty. As a rule, Sherlock expected people to do his bidding simply because he knew better what needed to be done. This time was different, though. This man, quite obviously dragged here by Mike as a possible answer to his flatmate problem, had something… some hidden depth that belied his plain appearance.

Mike, helpful as always, made the necessary introductions.

"This is an old mate of mine, John Watson."

They shook hands. The Army doctor's hand was pleasantly dry, even calloused in places, his grip short but firm. Sherlock returned to his microscope then, asking blithely over his shoulder:

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

~TBC~


	29. Part 29: Sherlocked

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** Yes, I did use some of the original dialogue from the unaired pilot. They're all Moffat's. Quoting them was inevitable in this case, I'm afraid, as this is the dreaded filling chapter, without which the story couldn't be continued. Do fogive me, folks.

* * *

**Part 29 – Sherlocked**

John was a bit surprised when Mike dragged him to _Bart's_ unceremoniously, with the vague explanation that he needed to introduce him to somebody. This somebody turned out to be a fairly exotic-looking man in his mid-thirties: very tall, very thin… and very odd, with an unruly map of ginger curls covering his sleek head and with the most extraordinary eyes John had ever seen aside from the CGI-effects of some science fiction film. Or rather fantasy epos, featuring mythical creatures.

They were large, slightly slanted and of a strange silver-green hue under wide, arched eyebrows, several shades darker than his hair. Had the man dark hair, Peter Jackson would have been deliriously happy to cast him as a Rivendell Elf. Thinking of it, he'd have made an excellent Vulcan, too, John decided, involuntarily checking out the man's ears.

Nope, they were _not_ pointed.

When they entered the lab, the man was standing at the far end, using a pipette to squeeze a few drops of liquid onto a Petri dish. Hearing their approach, he glanced across at them briefly before looking at his work again. John shrugged and limped into the room, looking around at all the equipment.

"Well, it's a bit different from my day," he judged.

Mike chuckled. "You've no idea!"

Sitting down back to his work, the man with the alien eyes asked without looking at them. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike asked good-naturedly, but he was already reaching into his coat pocket.

That earned him a tight smile from the man. "I'd rather text."

Mike finally found something in his pocket, but it was just a notebook, not his phone. "Sorry. It's in my other coat."

John fished in his back pocket and took out the fancy phone, Harry's gift. "Oh, here. Use mine."

"Oh. Thank you," the man seemed vaguely surprised as he glanced briefly at Mike, then stood up to walk over to them. John felt those luminous eyes practically take him apart as the phone changed hands and Mike introduced them. Then he returned to his microscope, flipped open the keypad and typed a short message.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked over his shoulder as an afterthought.

If John had been surprised before, he was positively shocked now. He frowned and glanced at Mike who was smiling knowingly. "Sorry?"

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" the man elaborated, his eyes glued to the microscope.

"Afghanistan," John replied automatically, before the strangeness of the whole situation could have registered properly. Mike just smiled smugly. "Sorry, how did you know ...?"

At this very moment the door opened and in came a mousey young woman in a white lab coat, carrying a white ceramic mug.

"Ah, coffee!" the man at the microscope exclaimed. "Thank you, Molly!"

Miss Wallflower, whose name was apparently Molly, put down the cup next to the microscope awkwardly. The man, handing John back his phone, gave her a searching look. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"I… It wasn't working for me," the girl named Molly replied with an awkward smile.

"Really?" the man asked in genuine surprise. "I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now."

He turned and walked back to his work, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste. The poor girl looked heartbroken and utterly humiliated at the same time.

"Okay," she muttered, heading back towards the door.

John fought the urge to punch the self-absorbed tosser in the teeth valiantly… and won. But it was a close thing. He was just about to give Mike's friend a piece of his mind when the man asked, without looking up to him.

"How do you feel about the violin?"

The question, out of the blue and with no obvious connection to whatever had happened so far, caught John off-guard. He glanced at Mike who was still smiling smugly, before realising that the rude idiot was actually talking to him.

"I'm sorry, what?" he replied with a question of his own, totally flabbergasted.

The guy was typing on his laptop keyboard and continued talking. "I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end," he finally looked up at John. "Would that bother you?"

John was still unable to say a thing, his brain valiantly trying to make the necessary connections… and failing. The guy threw a hideously false smile at him.

"Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other," he said as an explanation.

John kept looking at him blankly for a moment before staring across to Mike. "Oh, you... you told him about me?"

Mike grinned like a loon. "Not a word."

John shook his head and turned back to the madman at the laptop. "Then who said anything about flatmates?"

The madman suddenly stood, picking up his greatcoat and putting it on with an overly theatrical move. "I did. Told Mike some time ago that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

John's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

The madman ignored the question, wrapped his scarf around his neck, then picked up his mobile and checked it, realising with dismay that it still didn't have signal.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London," he said distractedly. "Together we ought to be able to afford it." He walked by John, without slowing down. "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock," again, that tight, creepy smile. "Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

Putting his phone into the inside pocket of his coat, he headed for the door. John stared at him in anger and disbelief. If the idiot thought he could boss around Captain John Watson from the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers then he was suffering from delusions of godhood.

"Is that it?" he demanded.

The madman turned back from the door and raised an eyebrow. "Is that what?"

John spelled it out for him like he would for a particularly dense child. "We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?"

Again, that arched eyebrow. "Problem?"

John shook his head in disbelief, not really sure whether he should scream or laugh. He looked across to Mike for help, but his friend just continued to smile as he looked at the madman. John decided _not_ to hit either of them. Not _yet_ anyway.

"We don't know a thing about each other," he began with forced patience. "I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

Which should have been enough explanation for any sane man. Unfortunately, his potential flatmate seemed to be outside of that category. He stared at John for a moment with a strangely hypnotic look in those alien eyes, before he began rattling down things he shouldn't know, by right.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan," he began, all but counting down things on his fingers. "I know you've got a brother with a bit of money who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. "

John felt his cheeks heating up with embarrassment as he looked down at his leg and cane and shuffled his feet awkwardly. Damn the man, did he really have to bring up his bloody limp?

"That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" the madman finished smugly. He turned and walked to the door again, opening it and going through, but then leaned back into the room for a parting shot. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He click-winked at John before looks round at Mike. "Afternoon."

Mike raised a finger in farewell as the madman disappeared from the room. The door slammed shut behind him. John turned and looked at Mike in disbelief. Mike smiled and nodded to him.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

For a moment John seriously considered hitting his old friend, after all.

~TBC~


	30. Part 30: Flatmate Check

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

* * *

**Part 30 – Flatmate Check**

"So, my little brother's gone and got himself a flatmate," Mycroft mused. "That was fast. What can you tell me about this… person, Ianto?"

Ianto's eyes became unfocused as always when he called up data from his photographic memory.

"Captain John Hamish Watson, age 39, a member of the RAMC, was deployed to Afghanistan until invalided from service after being wounded in action," he began.

"Do you have any details about the nature of the injury?" Mycroft asked.

Ianto nodded. "Of course, sir. He was struck in the shoulder by a bullet, which shattered the bone and grazed the subclavian artery. He was saved by one of the army nurses, a certain Bill Murray who's also returned to the UK in the meantime, but they don't actually have any contact in the moment. He also has a psychosomatic limp, caused by mental and emotional trauma rather than a physical wound, and an intermittent tremor in his left hand. His therapist, Miss Ella Thompson – arranged for him by the military – thinks it's from PTSD. She also mentions that he's got serious trust issues."

"Interesting," Mycroft drawled. "What about family?"

"Parents are both deceased," Ianto supplied the details. "He's got one older sister, Harriet Watson. She used to live in a civil partnership with another woman, Clara McGrath, but they split up three months ago and are getting a divorce."

"Reason?" Mycroft asked.

Ianto did that weird unfocused-eyed routine again. "Harriet Watson is a drinker. Her partner objected to her drinking, and she simply walked out on her, being more interested in the bottle than her partner."

"Is that why Dr. Watson won't accept help from her?" Mycroft asked. Ianto shrugged.

"Probably. Their mother had drunk herself to death. Perhaps he didn't want to watch his sister doing the same. But it might also be the fact that Harriet's on the brink of losing her current job and he didn't want to lie on her pocket."

Mycroft nodded thoughtfully. "Sounds plausible. Any other family? A wife? Children?"

"Ex-wife," Ianto corrected. "Name's Mary Morstan… or, if you want her authentic, Indian name, Mira Marsti. They married very young, much to the dismay of both families, and _her_ family finally succeeded to break up the marriage shortly before Dr. Watson would be deployed to Afghanistan."

"I assume the break-up was the reason why Dr. Watson hired up in the first place," Mycroft said.

Ianto shrugged. "Perhaps, sir. On the other hand, it wasn't really an out of character decision for Dr. Watson. He'd worked at A&E before hiring up, after all; and right after graduation, he spent two years in India, working for _Médiciens Sans Frontiers_. He seems to be a man with a strong social engagement."

"Who's going to look at a flat that he'd be sharing with a sociopath," Mycroft commented sourly. "That will be an interesting arrangement… not to mention a volatile one."

"May I respectfully point out, sir, that it was _you_ who insisted on portraying him as a sociopath?" Ianto asked politely; then, with a barely perceptive change in his demeanour, he added. "Of course, this is a highly creative way to explain his rudeness and his blatant disregard for almost the entire human race."

Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow. "Why, Mr. Jones, I almost get the impression that you're not particularly fond of my little brother!"

There was so much fake hurt in his voice that Ianto had to laugh, whether he wanted or not. Still, there was one detail that irked him a bit.

"You keep calling him your little brother," he said. "It's… rather strange, when one knows who – and _what_ – he really is."

"Well, that's exactly what he is _now:_ my little brother," Mycroft reasoned. "You better get used to if, as he'll remain that for quite a while."

"And what will he be for you once he gets restored to his true self?" Ianto asked.

Mycroft gave a long-suffering sigh. "A nuisance."

Clearly, it was Ianto's turn with the raised eyebrow now, and he didn't get the opportunity slip through his metaphoric fingers. "So, where's the difference, sir?"

"I find I can more easily tolerate him like this," Mycroft admitted ruefully.

Ianto flashed him a brief, knowing smile.

"When he depends on you in many ways and can't just leave on a whim if he gets bored?" he clarified.

Mycroft nodded. "I must confess a certain… _satisfaction_ about it. Even if it costs a lot of time and effort to watch him."

"Must we, sir?" Ianto asked. "Watch him, I mean. He's a grown man… alien... after all, and it isn't his first time on Earth. In fact, it isn't the first time he's _stranded_ on Earth."

"And that's exactly what concerns me," Mycroft said. "The chameleon arch works amazingly well, but it isn't bullet-proof; nothing in the multiverse is. Memories of his earlier times on Earth might leak through… and we need to know about it in the nanosecond it happens."

"And do _what_?" Ianto asked doubtfully. "Retcon him? Or let him revert to his true self?"

"Not right away, no," Mycroft replied. "Not without watching his reactions to potential flashbacks closely."

"In which a flatmate could be helpful, considering that they'd be living together," Ianto was finally getting the idea.

Mycroft nodded. "Exactly. Security cameras can only show us the bare facts: events, reactions, that sort of thing. They are completely useless when it comes to thought processes, plans or motivations. Which is why an insider informant would be so valuable."

Ianto nodded slowly. It made sense. He just wasn't sure that John Watson would be willingly playing his assigned part of the game.

"You want Dr. Watson to spy on your... _brother_," he said.

It wasn't a question, but Mycroft nodded nonetheless.

"What makes you sure he'll be ready to do so?"

That _was_ a question, albeit a fairly rhetoric one. Mycroft chose to deign it with an answer anyway.

"He's not a wealthy man. He hasn't got a job, has no income save that meagre Army pension of his, no savings. Even a flatshare will be a considerable financial effort for him. He can use the money."

"Who can't?" Ianto commented philosophically. "However, sir, I don't think Dr. Watson would see spying on his flatmate as an honourable way to earn his living. Even if it would be done to ease a loving older brother's concerns," he added, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He seems to be a man of strong moral principles."

"In that case I'll have to be a little more… persuasive," the older Holmes said with a superior smile. Ianto shook his head.

"I'm afraid, sir, you'll have to put up one hell of an appearance if you want to buy _that_ man."

"Everyone has his price, Ianto," Mycroft said mildly. "Even a war hero like Dr. John Watson."

"Perhaps," Ianto allowed. "But not everyone's always _interested_."

"Perhaps not," Mycroft shrugged. "Would _you_ be interested in a little bet? If Dr. Watson accepts my offer, you'll give Anthea the passwords to what's left from Torchwood London's Mainframe."

"And if the good doctor rejects the offer?" Ianto asked.

"Unlikely," Mycroft said with utmost confidence. "But for fairness' sake: what would you want?"

"Some time alone with a certain Mr. Dekker in a soundproof room and unlimited access to the strongest truth serum on this planet," Ianto replied darkly.

~TBC~


	31. Part 31: 221B Baker Street

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** As you can see from the descriptions, I go with some of the unaired pilot's visuals. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses.

* * *

**Part 29 – 221 Baker Street**

It was five minutes to seven o'clock when John Watson hobbled up Baker Street and reached the door marked 221B with at least 15 cm high, heavy digits in gold effect. A small and very pretty solid brass door knocker hung under the numbers, in a Victorian style that became popular around 1885. The house itself had a Victorian air about it, too, with a balcony that had a beautiful wrought iron railing.

Right under the balcony hung a large burgundy red sign, marking the ground floor shop in white letters as _Mrs Hudson's Snack 'n' Sarnies – Breakfast – Lunch – Pasta_. Above the shop door was a light ad that said _CAFÉ RESTAURANT_. John stared at the shop with interest. The café was clearly closed and a great deal of redecorating was taking place within, but he hoped that it will re-open eventually, solving the problem of easily available food.

He didn't notice the black cab pulling up at the kerb and almost jumped when he unexpectedly heard a deep baritone voice speaking behind him. "Mrs Hudson is our landlady."

He turned around sharply and saw Sherlock Holmes getting out of the cab, reaching in through the window and handing some money to the cab driver. John limped over to the cab. "Ah, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock, please," the other man said. They shook hands, then Sherlock thanked the cabbie and they turned back to the house.

"Well, this is a prime spot," John commented, a little anxiously. "Must be expensive."

"We're getting a special deal," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Mrs Hudson owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida," he paused. "I was able to help out."

"So, you stopped her husband being executed?" John was impressed… only to shiver involuntarily when those strange, almost colourless eyes rested on him for a moment with frightening intensity.

"Oh no," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "I ensured it."

"You _what_?" John thought he hadn't heard it correctly.

Sherlock shrugged. "The man was a serial killer; and quite insane, too. It would have been a shame if he hadn't got executed due to his insanity when the States conveniently still have the death penalty, don't you think?"

Without waiting for John's answer, he ran up to the door and knocked. The door opened almost immediately, and out looked a neat little old lady, wearing the most hideous, flower-patterned blouse under her black cardigan that John had _ever_ seen.

"Sherlock!" she exclaimed happily and beamed at the younger man like at a favourite son. Sherlock smiled back at her and, to John's surprise, the two of them hugged warmly. Then Sherlock let go of her, stepped back to introduce John, and she invited them in.

Sherlock didn't need to be told twice; as Mrs Hudson closed the door, he was already bouncing up the stairs to the first floor, not even checking whether John was following or not. John _was_ following, of course, muttering under his breath in annoyance about bloody stairs and inconsiderate future flatmates. When he finally reached the top of the stairs, though, he found Sherlock waiting for him, and as he opened the door ahead of him, John felt immediately rewarded for his efforts.

He liked the main living room at first sight, despite the mess – there were all sorts of possessions and boxes scattered around it – and the exaggerated dominance of mauve in its colouring. It was a nice, cosy room, with comfortable armchairs that practically begged to sprawl over them and relax: one of them an overstuffed, old-fashioned one that matched the sofa, the other one surprisingly modern, all chrome and black leather covering the soft seat cushions.

Okay, the black bison skull with the headphones mounted onto the wall _was_ a bit bizarre, but otherwise…

"Well, this could be very nice," John commented. "Very nice indeed."

Sherlock looked around happily. "Yes. Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely."

"Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out," John continued, giving said rubbish a disapproving look. Even before his military career, he'd always been fond of a well-ordered environment.

"So I went straight ahead and moved in," Sherlock was saying at the same time.

"Oh…" John felt his cheeks heat up in embarrassment. "So, this is all yours?"

Okay, the fact that Sherlock had moved in already explained the modern armchair – and the bizarre decoration. Why was the bison skull sporting headphones anyway? And why had it been painted black?

"Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit," Sherlock muttered, making a half-hearted attempt to cover his mess with a different kind of mess.

John watched in tolerant amusement his potential flatmate throwing a couple of folders into a box and then taking his unopened mail across to the fireplace where he pinned them to the mantelpiece with a multi-tool knife. Then John's eyes wandered along the mantelpiece, and on the other side of a beautiful, oval mirror (presumably Mrs Hudson's possession, as he couldn't imagine _Sherlock_ owning such a delicate piece) he spotted something and his good mood was gone in an instant.

"That," he said tonelessly, "is a _human_ skull."

There could be no doubt about it. An average non-professional might have had difficulties to tell a plastic replica from the real, bleached human bone, but John was a doctor. A doctor who'd performed enough obductions to recognise the real item when he saw it.

_And_ he was a soldier who'd seen more than enough human skulls, bleached white in the desert sun, to have stored nightmare material that would last a lifetime. Keeping such an item in one's living room as a decoration was against his sense of decency.

Hearing his statement, Sherlock stopped his highly creative (but not very effective) tidying-up action and glanced at the skull in a manner that could almost have been considered tender.

"Friend of mine," he said nonchalantly; then he shrugged. "When I say 'friend'..."

All right, this was definitely weird, and John was beginning to doubt the wisdom of moving in with such a madman. Even if Mike Stamford appeared to like him. Mike didn't really count, as he liked just about everyone. Plus, he was easily fooled – had he not lived under the same roof with a criminal for years, without realising it?

Mrs Hudson, on the other hand, didn't seem particularly bothered by Sherlock's antics. Okay, so she owed him a favour; but beyond that, she seemed to genuinely like him. She'd even hugged him in the door. That husband of hers must have been quite a number if she was this happy to be rid of him. But didn't the fact that she'd married that bloke in the first place prove her a terrible judge of character? What if she was wrong about Sherlock, too?

The object of his consideration followed them to the living room, picking up an abandoned cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf and gave John a somewhat anxious glance, clearly eager to have the flat rented out.

"What do you think, then, Doctor Watson?" she asked. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John stared at her in confusion. "Of course we'll be needing two."

Mrs Hudson leaned closer conspiratorially. "Oh, don't worry; there's all sorts round here," she dropped her voice to a whisper. "Mrs Turner next door's got _married_ ones."

The tension and the weirdness of the situation finally caught up with John. He collapsed into the old, comfortable armchair and tried to decide whether he should, A: laugh hysterically, or B: cry tears of frustration, or C: get up and run as fast as his bad leg would allow while he still could.

~TBC~


	32. Part 32: Not Your Housekeeper!

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** As you can see , I use here some of the unaired pilot's dialogue. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses.

* * *

**Part 30 – "Not Your Housekeeper!"**

While John was considering his options (which, admittedly, were fairly limited in number), Mrs Hudson had drifted off to the kitchen, muttering something about _the state of this place already_ and started tidying it up. Sherlock, apparently forgotten about John's presence, sat down at the old-fashioned bureau by the window and was rummaging through the papers cluttering its surface.

That reminded John of something. "Oh, by the way, I looked you up on the internet last night."

Sherlock was typing away on his laptop at an alarming speed, answering his mail and didn't even look up from it. "Anything interesting?"

"Found your website," John replied. "_The Science of Deduction_."

"What did you think?" was there some hidden pride in the arrogant man's voice?

"I found it quite amusing, to tell the truth," John smiled faintly.

_That_ clearly hit a nerve. Sherlock turned around to him, without rising from his chair, which was a strangely twisted position for any living creature save a boa constrictor; his pale eyes were every bit as cold as those of a snake.

"_Amusing_?" he repeated indignantly.

John raised a sardonic eyebrow. "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and a retired plumber by his left hand."

"Yes," Sherlock snapped. "Like I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John asked sceptically.

"You read the article," Sherlock replied.

John shrugged. "The article was absurd."

Sherlock finally stood up to face him. "You want the answer? The answer is I _observed_. And I not only know about his drinking habit, I even know that he's left his wife," he declared in a coldly triumphant manner.

_Yeah, and you still haven't realized that "he" is a "she"_, John thought, fighting the urge to laugh him in the face.

Fortunately for him, Mrs Hudson came back from the kitchen waving with the newspaper.

"What about these mysterious deaths then, Sherlock? I thought that'd be right up your street. Been a fourth one now."

As if on clue, the sirens of a police car could be heard from the street. Sherlock walked over to the window of the living room and looked out.

"Yes, actually they are right up my street," he said. "_Literally_."

John leaned forward onto his cane. "Can I just ask _what_ is your street?"

Sherlock waved impatiently towards the newspaper Mrs Hudson was still holding. "There has been a fifth one now." He looked down at the car pulling up in front of the house. The vehicle was clearly a police car with its lights flashing on the roof. "And there's something different this time."

"A fifth _what_?" John was close to screaming in frustration.

Sherlock didn't have the time to answer (if he'd intended to do so at all, which was doubtful) because a grey-haired man in a conservative suit appeared in the open door. He didn't say a word, just stood there, his hands in his pockets.

"Where this time?" Sherlock asked in a clipped tone.

"Brixton," the man replied tiredly. "Lauriston Gardens. Will you come?"

Sherlock made no visible attempts to do so – not yet anyway. "Who's on forensics?" he asked instead.

"Anderson," the man admitted.

Sherlock grimaced. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well, he won't be your assistant," the detective (because what else could he have been) shrugged.

Sherlock didn't seem satisfied with that answer. "I _need_ an assistant."

The detective ignored him. Instead, he repeated the question that seemed more important to him. "Will you come?"

"Not in a police car," Sherlock replied with obvious reluctance. "I'll be right behind."

"Thank you," the detective said with exaggerated politeness.

He looked at John and Mrs Hudson for a moment, as if wondering what _they_ were doing here; then he turned and hurried off down the stairs. Sherlock waited until he had reached the front door, then leapt into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

"Oh, brilliant! Yes! And I thought it was gonna be a _dull_ evening! Honestly, can't beat an imaginative serial killer when there's nothing on the telly!"

He jumped over the coffee table to pick up his scarf and coat and started to put them on as he headed for the kitchen.

"Mrs Hudson, I'll be out late tonight," he announced, hooking the long, soft-looking blue scarf around his neck. "Might need some food."

Mrs Hudson crossed her arms in a manner that clearly demonstrated her annoyance. "I'm your landlady, dear, _not_ your housekeeper."

Sherlock, of course, didn't pay any attention. He was too busy checking some weird-looking tools in a folding leather case.

"Something cold will do," he continued on his way out. In the door he paused for a moment, suddenly remembering the potential flatmate he'd left behind in the living room. "John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!"

And with that, he was gone. Mrs Hudson turned back to John, shaking her head in fond exasperation.

"Look at him, dashing about! My first husband was just the same. A journalist, you see? Always on a case, always on the run. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell."

She couldn't be more false about that, but John felt just too exhausted to correct her. Besides, sitting down right now sounded like a good idea.

Mrs Hudson, now in full mother hen mode, turned towards the kitchen again. "I'll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John burst out angrily, frustration getting to him at last. His response was instinctive and he immediately apologised seeing Mrs Hudson turn back to him in shock.

"Sorry," he muttered, "I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing ..." he bashed his leg with his cane in helpless fury.

Mrs Hudson gave her a benign look. "I understand, dear; I've got a hip," touching the offending body part fleetingly, she turned towards the kitchen again. She was already in the door when John's voice caught up with her.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely, thank you."

"Just this once, dear," she warned. "I'm _not_ your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em," John added hopefully.

"_Not_ your housekeeper!" she called back from the kitchen.

But somehow he had the feeling that there _would_ be some biscuits on the tray when the tea would arrive.

~TBC~


	33. Part 33: The Science of Deduction

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** As you can see from the descriptions, I go with some of the unaired pilot's visuals. That will change, eventually, as the story progresses. The news article is from "A Study in Pink", of course.

* * *

**Part 33 – The Science of Deduction**

After Mrs Hudson had gone to the kitchen to make him tea, John picked up _The Times_ she'd left behind and scanned the article she'd been referring to. The headline said: **Fourth Poisoned Offer Found!**, and it featured a large photo of some blonde woman and next to it a much smaller one of the detective from before, identifying him as DI Lestrade.

His interest piqued, John started reading the article

_The body of Beth Davenport, Junior Minister for Transport, was found late last night in a building site in Greater London_, it said. _Preliminary investigation suggests that she was poisoned; more than that, she presumably took the poison voluntarily. The police can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffrey Patterson, who went missing on October 12, and James Phillimore, a young student found dead in a sports centre on November 26. In the light of this, these incidents are now being treated as linked. The ongoing investigation is led by DI Lestrade, who's assured the press that all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions._

"Reasonable precautions, my arse," John muttered. The detective who'd just visited to fetch his new flatmate had clearly been out of his depth and very obviously clueless about the whole case.

He went on to read the next article – the statement of Sir Jeffrey's wife.

_My husband was a happy man who lived life to the full_, Margaret Patterson declared. _He loved his family and his work – and that he should have taken his own life in this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him_.

"Yeah, and he probably cheated on you with his secretary, too," John muttered.

Well, this was interesting stuff, for sure. Four related cases of mysterious poisoning: a rich businessman, some snotty kid on his way to sport, the actual Junior Minister for Transport – and now a fifth one? What happened to this city while he'd been in Afghanistan?

"A lot of things; most of them hopelessly boring," the deep voice of his new flatmate said. Looking up, John saw him standing in the living room door, watching him with that frighteningly intensity again. "You're a doctor," he then said. "I fact, you're an Army doctor."

It wasn't really a question, but John got to his feet nonetheless and turned to Sherlock who came back into the room again. "Yes."

"Any good?" Sherlock asked nonchalantly.

Anger flared up in John. How did the man _dare_ to question his professional excellence as a doctor? He'd got _medals_ for outstanding service, dammit!

"_Very_ good," he snapped. No use for false modesty here.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then?" Sherlock continued, still scrutinising him with that unnerving gaze. "Violent deaths."

"Hmmm, yes," John said noncommittally, wishing that the other man would finally get to the point.

"Bit of trouble, too, I bet," Sherlock murmured in a low, almost seductive voice, and the memories slammed back into John's mind like a sledgehammer.

The merciless heat of the desert sun… the scent of sweat, blood, weapon's oil and burnt human flesh… the rush of adrenaline through his veins as he ran through the hail of bullets in a desperate effort to save lives, his own and those of his fallen comrades… the moans and cries of the wounded while he was operating on them in the middle of nowhere… the searing pain of the bullet tearing through his shoulder…

"Of course, yes," he replied quietly, fighting the sudden nausea. "Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.

So why did he have the feeling that he'd never be so _alive _again, even if he lived to be a hundred years old?

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock's voice was low, barely audible, but John could suddenly feel the excitement rush through his body again – a feeling he hadn't realised how much he was missing ever since his return.

"Oh God, yes!" he said fervently.

"Come on then," Sherlock spun on his heels and stormed out of the room and down the stairs, without checking if John would follow him. Which he did, of course, limping after his flatmate as fast as his bad leg allowed.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," he called out to their landlady who was standing near the bottom of the stairs. "I'll skip the tea. Off out!"

"_Both_ of you?" she asked in understandable confusion.

Sherlock had almost reached the front door by then, but at that he turned and strode back to her.

"There's no point sitting at home when finally something halfway interesting happens," he declared, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her noisily on the cheek,

"Look at you, all happy!" she said reprovingly. "It's not decent!" She couldn't help but smile, though, as he headed for the front door again.

"Who cares about decent?" Sherlock called back over his shoulder. "The game, Mrs Hudson, the game is on!" With that, he walked out onto the street to hail an approaching black cab. "Taxi!"

* * *

In the following thirty minutes they were sitting in the cab, on their way to Brixton, and John listened in open-mouthed awe to his new flatmate who led him through a long, interlinked chain of brilliant deductions. Explaining how he'd read John's career and living conditions from his haircut and his stance (= military), from his brief conversation with Mike Stamford he'd overheard (= medical training at _Bart's_), from the suntan that didn't go beyond neck and wrist (= long time abroad but not sunbathing) and from his psychosomatic limp (= wounded in action), and how he'd come to the final deduction: Afghanistan or Iraq.

He loudly clicked the 'k' sound at the end of the final word, which made John giggle nervously.

"You said I had a therapist," he then said. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – _of course_ you've got a therapist," he said. "Then there's your brother."

"My brother, right," John repeated, suppressing a grin as Sherlock launched another brilliant string of deductions, all based on his phone. Rattling down unerringly why it _had_ to be a gift from a family member – a sibling, more accurately – who'd got it from a wife. Why it _had_ to be a recent gift, how the marriage _had_ to be in trouble and how it _had_ to be Harry who'd left Clara, not the other way round. He even correctly deduced that Harry was a drinker, from the small scratches around the power connection; and how he, John, wouldn't go to Harry for help because of the drinking.

The only point he'd missed was Harry's actual gender, but that really wasn't his fault. Most people wouldn't think of a woman by that nickname. Which only showed that even the brilliant, arrogant Sherlock Holmes had something in common with most people.

It was a comforting thought, actually.

"There you go, you see," Sherlock finished triumphantly. "You were right."

"I was right?" John didn't have a clue where _that_ came from. "Right about _what_?"

"The police don't consult amateurs," Sherlock replied, looking out of the side window haughtily. But he was biting his lower lip as he was waiting for John's reaction. Not quite so sure about himself as he'd like others to think, apparently.

"That… was amazing," John declared, and he meant it, because aside from Harry's gender, Sherlock had been spot on. Sherlock turned to him in apparent surprise.

"You think so?" he asked after a few moments, and there was almost some child-like eagerness in his voice. John felt his heart contract painfully at that obvious hunger for appreciation.

"Of course it was," he replied with as much conviction as he could manage; which, in this case, was a lot. "It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock accepted the honest reassurance with a slight nod. "That's not what people normally say," he then said, but there was amusement in his voice rather than hurt.

"What do people normally say?" John asked, curious.

Sherlock smiled briefly. "'Piss off!'" he said

And then they both grinned as their journey continued.

~TBC~


	34. Part 34: Rubbing Shoulders

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** As you can see, this part is less pilot-wise. Some lines of the dialogue are from Ep 1.01 – A Study in Pink and belong to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.

* * *

**Part 34 – Rubbing Shoulders With the Police**

The cab finally arrived at Lauriston Gardens. They got out; Sherlock paid the driver and led John directly towards the police tape strung across the road.

"Did I get anything wrong?" he asked casually… way too casually, if the vague anxiety in his voice was any indication.

It must have been hard, this constant urge to prove how smart he was – to others _and_ to himself, John thought. He decided to let him have his illusion for another moment.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have," he started to count down the facts, limping along with Sherlock with some effort to keep up with his long-legged stride. "Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker."

Sherlock was clearly impressed with himself. "Spot on, then," he declared in unmistakable delight. "I didn't expect to be right about everything."

_Oh yes, you did_, John thought before delivering the blow. "And Harry's short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. "Harry's your _sister_?"

John ignored him, continuing onwards. "Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?"

"A _sister_!" Sherlock repeated furiously, through gritted teeth.

John valiantly suppressed a grin. "No, seriously, what am I doing here?" he insisted, but Sherlock paid him no attention.

"There's always something," he said in exasperation and started to walk again.

As they approached the police tape, a bitterly beautiful, young black woman in a police uniform intercepted them. Her demeanour towards Sherlock was openly hostile. John wondered why.

"Hello, freak," she greeted the detective, her tone deliberately insulting.

"Sherlock, however, didn't rise to the bait. "I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade."

She crossed her arms, still blocking their way. "Why?"

"I was invited," Sherlock replied with a charming smile that was about as false as home-made 50-pound notes.

She still wasn't buying it; or she was simply being obnoxious, John couldn't tell. "Why?" she repeated.

"I think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock still displayed that small, arrogant smile of his, and she finally gave in, lifting the tape.

"Well, you know what _I think_, don't you?" Actually, it was written all over her face; a blind man could have read it.

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked underneath it. "Always, Sally," he replied cheerfully. Then he breathed in through his nose, as if sniffing her. It was… creepy, John decided. "I even know you didn't make it home last night."

For a moment the shock seemed to take away her voice, making John quite sure that Sherlock was right. Then she seemed to notice him for the first time.

"Who's this?" she demanded

"Colleague of mine," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Doctor Watson, this is Sergeant Sally Donovan. An old _friend_," he added, voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Like the skull on the mantelpiece?" John asked innocently and was rewarded with a barely visible twitching of the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

For a moment, the absurd mental image of Sherlock collecting the skulls of his friends, like the mad emperor, the one with the crazy hair in _Babylon 5_, did with his enemies, and displaying them on the mantelpiece to have an audience all the time, was so sharp that he had to bite the inside of his cheeks to keep himself from laughing hysterically.

"A colleague?" Sergeant Donovan repeated in disbelief. "How do you get a colleague?" she looked at John as if she would study some unusual lab species "What, did he follow you home?"

John started to feel uncomfortable… and most decidedly unwanted. "Look, maybe I'll just wait and..."

"No," Sherlock interrupted, lifting the tape for him.

As John ducked under it, Donovan swapped out her radio. "Freak's here," she said to somebody. "Bringing him in."

* * *

She led them to one of the nearby houses – clearly an abandoned one if its vacant, blank windows were any indication; or perhaps under reconstruction. Sherlock didn't run into the house at once as John had expected him to do. Instead, he took his time to look all around the area and at the ground as they approached. As they reached the pavement, a bearded, bespectacled man in a blue forensic suit came out of the house.

"Ah, Anderson," Sherlock greeted him with false cheerfulness. "Here we are again."

The disdain in his voice was palpable. The forensic specialist whose name was apparently Anderson looked at him with equal distaste.

"It's a crime scene," he declared sourly. "I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?"

"Quite clear," Sherlock replied amiably. Way too amiably, John thought.

"Your magic tricks might impress Inspector Lestrade, but they don't work on me," Anderson continued, his hostility obvious.

"M-hm," Sherlock replied noncommittally. "Is your wife away for long?"

Anderson snorted in disdain. "Oh, don't pretend you worked _that_ out. Somebody told you that."

Sherlock did that strange sniffing… _thing_, breathing in deeply through his nose as he'd done with Sergeant Donovan.

"Your deodorant told me that," he declared, and despite his previous amazement at the man's deducing skills, John briefly considered the possibility that Sherlock _was_ mad after all.

The forensic expert seemed to share his suspicion. "My deodorant?"

Sherlock stared at him with an odd expression on his face; John could have sworn that he'd even stopped breathing. "It's for _men_," he whispered dramatically.

Anderson rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Well, of _course_ it's for men! _I'm_ wearing it!"

"So's Sergeant Donovan," Sherlock riposted without missing a beat, with the perverse pleasure of somebody who'd just successfully knifed an enemy to the death. Anderson turned around, looking at the pretty Sergeant in shock. Sherlock sniffed pointedly again. "I think it just vaporised. May I go in?"

Anderson whirled around back to him and pointed at him angrily. "You – you listen to me, okay? Whatever you're trying to imply..."

"I'm not implying anything," Sherlock interrupted, heading past Donovan towards the front door. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over," he looked back, delivering the killing blow mercilessly. "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror, which inspired him to a smug smile as he swung around and went into the house. John followed, unable to resist a brief look at Donovan's knees, which were in a fairly rough state indeed. He shook his head. Why would a woman as pretty and opinionated as she lower herself (quite literally) to a guy like this Anderson character? She could have done much better.

"Right," Anderson mumbled in helpless fury. "Just... just go in. Just, just go."

John found Sherlock and the Detective Inspector in a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a forensic suit. Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar items.

"You need to wear one of these," he told John.

That caught the Detective Inspector's attention; he looked at John warily. "Who's this?"

"He's with me," Sherlock replied, taking his gloves off.

Understandably enough, the Detective Inspector wasn't satisfied with that answer. "But who _is_ he?"

That earned him a glacial look from Sherlock. "I said he's with _me_."

A bit uncomfortable for becoming the subject of their confrontation, John took his jacket off and picked up a coverall obediently. All _Sherlock_ picked up was a pair of latex gloves. John frowned.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" It was a crime scene, after all, and Anderson had been right in _one _thing: contaminating it wouldn't be helpful.

Sherlock just glared at him sternly and John shook his head. "Silly me. What was I _thinking_?"

Sherlock ignored him. "So where are we?" he asked the Detective Inspector.

"Upstairs," Lestrade, too, picked up a pair of latex gloves and started climbing the stairs, certain without checking that they would follow.

~TBC~


	35. Part 35: Crime Scene Investigations

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** As you can see, I use some lines from the unaired pilot and some from the actual episode, _A Study in Pink_. It's a fine line I have to walk here. *g* But it won't be much longer, I promise - soon we'll be venturing out to AU country.

* * *

**Part 35 – Crime Scene Investigations**

They followed the Detective Inspector up a circular staircase that, at least for John, seemed to have no end at all. Especially as he had to balance on the stairs with those stupid white cotton coverings over his shoes; as if his bad leg hadn't made his balance precarious already. Sherlock, of course, was bouncing up the stairs like a rubber ball, putting the latex gloves on as he went.

"I can give you two minutes," the Detective Inspector said as they reached the top of the stairs.

"May need longer," Sherlock replied casually. "What've you found out so far?"

"Footprint analysis says the only other person in the room during the last twelve hours was a man about five foot seven, and it seems he and the victim arrived together by car," Lestrade told them. "All identification is missing on the body, just like all the others. No idea who she is or where she's from."

He opened the door to a room two storeys above the ground floor. The room was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner – could it once have been a nursery? The yellowed wallpaper hanging off the wall in strips showed faded characters from Disney cartoons, so yeah, it probably had. Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes had been knocked through one of the walls.

John had never thought that there could be any place more depressing than his little bed-sit – now he'd been taught better.

As a sharp contrast to the faded environment, a woman's body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor either side of her head; her face, strangely peaceful in death, was young, soft and framed by long blonde hair. John's heart filled with pain and sadness as he looked down at her body. She seemed to have been a nice woman; she didn't deserve to die like this, in some run-down building, alone. Nobody did.

Sherlock walked a few steps into the room ahead of them and then stopped, holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. The three of them stood there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock glared across the room to Lestrade.

"Shut up," he growled.

The Detective Inspector stared at him in confusion. "I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking," Sherlock snapped. "It's annoying."

The Detective Inspector and John exchanged a slightly exasperated look, the former clearly used to such reactions. Ignoring them, Sherlock slowly approached the corpse from the side. His attention was immediately drawn to the fact that scratched into the floorboards by the woman's left hand was the word RACHE. His eyes flicked to her fingernails.

"The index and middle nails are broken and ragged at the ends with the nail polish chipped," he murmured. "The other nails are still immaculate; the index finger rests at the bottom of the 'e' as if she was still trying to carve into the floor when she died – left handed!"

He then squatted down beside the body, ran his gloved hand along the back of the pink coat, and looked at his fingers. "Wet."

He reached into the coat pockets and found a folding umbrella, in the same eye-biting shade of pink, in one of them. Running his fingers along the folds of the material, he inspected his glove again. "Hmm. Dry."

He put the umbrella back into her pocket, then moves up to the collar of the coat and ran his fingers underneath it before once again looking at his fingers. "Wet."

Reaching into his pocket he took out a small magnifier, clicked it open and closely inspects the delicate gold bracelet on her left wrist. "Clean," then the gold earring in her left ear, "clean," and then the gold chain around her neck, "clean again."

Finally, he moved on to look at her wedding ring. "This one's dirty, though… interesting," he carefully worked the ring off her finger and held it up to look at the inside. "But clean in the inside, so it's been regularly removed. Hmmm…"

He slid the ring back onto the woman's finger, nodded in satisfaction, pocketed the magnifier and the gloves and, getting out his phone, he began typing on it.

"Well, she's from out of town clearly," he muttered. "Planned to spend a single night in London before returning home, so far, so obvious."

"Obvious?" the Detective Inspector asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"Yes, obvious. Back of the right leg," Sherlock replied impatiently, his eyes still fixed on his phone; then he grinned smugly as he clearly found the answer he was looking for. "And it's also glaringly obvious that she came from Cardiff."

That was a bit more than John could leave without comment. "Sorry – obvious?" he asked.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade chimed in at the same time.

"She's German," Anderson commented from where he is leaning casually against the doorway. "_Rache_ is German for _revenge_. She could be trying to tell us something …"

Sherlock walked up to the door while Anderson was still speaking and slammed it shut right in his face.

"Yes, thank you for your input," he said with biting sarcasm.

"So she's German?" the Detective Inspector asked in confusion.

"Of course she's not, don't be an idiot!" Sherlock snapped; then he looked at John. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John was every bit as confused as the Detective Inspector.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of the _body_. You're a medical man."

"Wait, no" the Detective Inspector protected. "We have a whole team right outside."

"They won't work with me," Sherlock hissed.

"I'm breaking every rule letting _you_ in here," the Detective Inspector reminded him.

"Yes," Sherlock's face was frozen into an angry grimace, "because you _need_ me."

The Detective Inspector glared at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes helplessly. "Yes, I do," he admitted in resignation. "God help me."

Sherlock no longer paid him any attention. "Doctor Watson."

"Hm?" John looks up from the body to Sherlock, then turned his head to the Detective Inspector, silently seeking his permission. The soldier in him wouldn't allow blundering into the scene the same way Sherlock did.

"Oh, do as he says," Lestrade said a little tetchily. "Help yourself." He turned and opened the door, going outside. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Meanwhile Sherlock and John had walked over to the body. Sherlock squatted down on the right-hand side of it and John painfully lowered himself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself. Putting his cane down, he leaned forward on one hand to look more closely at the body.

"Well?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

John gave him a wary look. "What am I doing here?" he asked in a low voice.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied in the same manner.

John raised an eyebrow. "I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun," Sherlock said with a grimace that wasn't funny _at all_. John still couldn't help taking offence.

"_Fun_?" he repeated in disapproval. "There's a woman lying dead."

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock returned. "Two men and three women are lying dead already; keep talking and there will be more. Now: cause of death?"

~TBC~


	36. Part 36: Pink!

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Author's note:** Again, I use here some of the unaired pilot's dialogue. However, as you'll see later, this is a very different situation.

My thanks to my good friend, saki101 who helped me transcribing some of the lines. I'd never have managed that on my own.

* * *

**Part 36 – Pink!**

John suppressed a sigh as he dragged his other leg down into a kneeling position and then leaned forward so that he could look more closely at the woman's body. He put his head close to hers and sniffed to check for the smell of booze but found nothing. He could smell the unpleasant stench of vomit, though, so he pulled back fairly quickly. He lifted her hand to check on the skin then straightened up to kneeling again and looked at Sherlock.

"Yeah... Asphyxiation, probably. Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs."

Sherlock interrupted him with an impatient gesture. "She was poisoned."

John raised a surprised eyebrow. "How would you know that?"

"Because they were _all_ poisoned," Sherlock replied impatiently.

John wasn't so easily persuaded, though. "By whom?"

"By themselves," Sherlock answered testily.

"Themselves?" John repeated in surprise. "The papers didn't say anything about suicides."

"We've identified the drugs," Lestrade, who'd come back into the room and was now standing just inside the doorway offered, but he was rudely interrupted by Sherlock who managed to wave him off without even turning back to him, which was quite a feat unless one was _really_ limber – which Sherlock apparently was.

"Doesn't matter; it was _poison_!"

Lestrade crossed his arms with a long-suffering expression on his face. Sherlock ignored him practically crawling over the body to check on details that made only sense to him,

"The same pattern every time," he murmured. "Each of them disappearing from their normal lives," he sniffed the dead woman's palm, then her fingernails. "From the theatre… from their home… from the office… from a pub… and then a few hours later they turn up where they're not supposed to be," he was now sniffing the back of the woman's hand; then he pulled back the sleeve of her coat to take a look at her wrist, "dead." He looked under her collar again, then lifted her hair, too. "No sign of violence on the body, no suggestion of compulsion. Each of them killed by the same poison and, as far as we can tell, taken it voluntarily."

Lestrade had apparently had enough. "Sherlock, I said two minutes! Tell me everything you've got."

Sherlock whipped out his phone to check something and smiled. "Okay, take this down," he said absent-mindedly.

The Detective Inspector, however, clearly couldn't be bothered with taking notes. "Just tell me what you've got!" he demanded.

Sherlock looked at him with so much honest confusion that John's heart went out to him. "You're not gonna write this down?"

"Sherlock!" the Detective Inspector bellowed, obviously at the end of his rope.

"It's all right," John interfered on Sherlock's behalf who seemed almost hurt by Lestrade's lack of appreciation and took out his notebook and pen. "I, um, I can do it."

"Thank you," Sherlock beamed at him; then he took a deep breath and began to rattle down his deductions with such insane speed that John was barely able to write down the key phrases.

It made him wish Harry were present; she was very good at shorthand. When she happened to stay sober, that is.

"Victim is in her late twenties," Sherlock was speaking in the meantime. "Professional person, going by her clothes; presumably something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. That's obvious from the size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" the Detective Inspector repeated with a frown. John looked around the room but couldn't see a suitcase anywhere, either.

"Suitcase, yes," Sherlock replied impatiently and went on to tell them about the woman being unhappily married and having a string of lovers, none of which knew she was married.

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up!" Lestrade burst out.

Sherlock gave him an irritated look and pointed down at the dead woman's left hand. "Her wedding ring. Look at it: it's too tight. That means she's been married for a while. Also," he lifted the hand in question and turned it so that the other two could see it, "there's grime in the gem setting. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. That says a lot about the state of the marriage."

He picked up speed, proving them with merciless deduction, based on the state of her jewellery and on the size of her hypothetical suitcase why she must have been a serial adulteress. John was fairly blown away.

"That's fantastic!" he said in open-mouthed awe.

Sherlock stopped for a moment, turned to him and said in a low voice. "D'you know you do that out loud?"

John blushed, realising that he must have sounded like some hare-brained teenager meeting their first pop star. "Sorry," he muttered. "I'll shut up."

For some reason, _that _seemed to embarrass Sherlock for a change, although he managed to sound absurdly pleased at the same time – only God knew how. "No, it's ... fine."

The Detective Inspector, however, seemed a lot more sceptical.

"There was no suitcase," he told Sherlock, crossing his arms again in a challenging manner.

"Sorry?" Sherlock was honestly taken aback.

"You keep saying 'suitcase'!" Lestrade elaborated. "There wasn't one."

"Oh!" Sherlock said in surprise. "I was assuming you had taken it away."

"There was a handbag," Lestrade said with a shrug. "Why did you say she had a case?"

"Because she did!" Sherlock snapped. "Her handbag, was there a mobile phone in it?"

"No," Lestrade replied simply.

Sherlock shook his head in confusion. "That's odd. That's very odd."

Lestrade looked at him as if seeking for sure signs of insanity on his face. "Why?"

"Never mind," Sherlock waved impatiently. "We have to find her case!"

"How d'you know she had a case?" John asked.

Sherlock launched into another rapid-fire explanation about how the splash patterns the hypothetical suitcase left on her right leg proved the existence of said case in the first place, and how the state of her coat and umbrella proved – combined with the weather report that he'd checked on his phone – that she came from Cardiff and only meant to stay one night.

"Maybe she checked into a hotel and left her case there," John suggested.

Sherlock shook his head. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She colour-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking..." he stopped talking as he made a sudden realisation. "Oh!" His eyes widened and his face lit up. "Oh!" He started to hurry down the stairs.

Lestrade leaned over the railings. "What is it, what?"

Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked up at him. "Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake."

"We can't just wait!" Lestrade protested.

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock replied. "Where she was found, she couldn't be here very long, is that right?"

"Not long at all," Lestrade replied. "Less than an hour."

"Less than an hour," Sherlock repeated, thinking furiously. "An hour! News black-out. Can you do that? Don't say that you've found her, nothing for a day."

"Why?" Lestrade asked, honestly perplexed.

"Look at her," Sherlock yelled, "really _look_! Houston, we have a mistake. Back in a moment!" He reached the bottom of the stairs and disappeared from their view.

"_What_ mistake?!" Lestrade called after him in frustration.

Sherlock came back and ran up a couple of stairs before yelling up to him. "PINK!"

He hurried off again. Lestrade looked after him for a moment, baffled, then called out to Anderson and his team who had been waiting on the next landing down. "Anderson! You can come in now."

Anderson came up the stairs, pushing past John rather urgently. "I'm here. So? What was the point in all that?"

"We're after a psychopath," Lestrade told him.

"And you're bringing in another psychopath to help," Anderson pointed out sourly.

Lestrade shrugged. "If that's what it takes," he turned and pointed to the room "All yours. Get on with it."

John found it better to get out of the way, but not without contributing his own part. He held out his notebook to Lestrade. "My notes. Do you want me to, um..."

The Detective Inspector gave him a blank look. "I'm sorry, you're..."

"Doctor Watson," John supplied.

Lestrade pointed down the stairs. "I'm sorry; you're going to have to go, Doctor Watson. Don't need your notes."

For some reason, John felt insulted on Sherlock's behalf. The man's deductions had been absolutely brilliant, and the police didn't want them in written form to use later? Were they insane or just insanely jealous? In either case, it wasn't his job to make them see the light. If they wanted to fail again, big time, it was their problem.

"OK," he said amiably and hobbled off towards the stairs.

~TBC~


	37. Part 37: A Friendly Warning

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Again, some lines of the dialogue are from the unaired pilot. Not mine, obviously.

Also, brownie points to those who get the Star Trek: DS9 reference. *g*

* * *

**Part 37 – A Friendly Warning – Or Is It?**

Obviously forgotten by everyone, John rested for a moment on the landing, before starting to make his way down the stairs. Some police officers hurried up in the wake of the forensic team. One of them bumped against him, throwing him off-balance and making him lurch heavily against the banisters.

John gritted his teeth. No-one would have _dared_ to treat Captain Watson like this while still in the Army – the rudeness made it adamantly clear how much of standing he had lost through the fact that he'd been invalided. The man hurried on without a word; at least his colleague had the decency to look at John in silent apology as he passed.

John returned the gesture with a brief nod; there was no need to lower himself to the level of a rude idiot. Then he regained his balance and continued hobbling down the stairs. He couldn't wait to finally get rid of the forensic suit and those ridiculous cotton coverings on his shoes. They made the simple act of getting down the stairs a perilous task.

It took him about ten minutes to shed the coverall and put his jacket back on, notebook and pen forgotten in his inner pocket. He walked out onto the street, trying to find a sign of Sherlock but found none. With a weary sigh, he limped towards the police tape and saw the pretty, uniformed sergeant Sherlock had introduced as Sally Donovan lean into a waiting car and explain something to the driver with forced patience.

"Okay, look, we're gonna need Jones and Adams at the top of the road. There's so many people around…" Seeing John approach, she straightened. "He's gone," she told him.

John frowned. "Who, Sherlock Holmes?"

The sergeant nodded. "Yeah, he just took off. He does that," she added with obvious disapproval, and John found himself in agreement. The last Sherlock could have done was to wait for him; after having dragged him through half London to take a look at a murdered woman!

"Is he coming back?" It was a stupid question, as she had no means to know, but John was frustrated. And his leg hurt again. Stupid wet weather!

The sergeant, however, felt at least obliged to answer.

"Didn't look like it," she said, which probably meant that Sherlock had stormed off like a madman… the way he'd left the crime scene.

"Right," John muttered, looking around thoughtfully, unsure what to do.

Should he return to Baker Street and wait for Sherlock?: Or would it be entirely safer to forget the man, the murder case, the whole idea of a flatshare and go back to his depressing little bed-sit? With Mike's help, he could find a job eventually. If nothing else, a locum job. There was always an opening for doctors desperate enough to stand in for those who had fallen ill or something.

"Right… yes," he muttered again; then he turned back to the sergeant. "Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton," she replied in a friendly enough manner. She didn't seem to have any problems with _him_, so John risked the question that had been bothering him since leaving the house.

"Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er... well..." he looked down at his cane awkwardly, "… my leg."

She came closer to lift the tape for him. "What's wrong with your leg? Car accident?"

He usually hated when people asked about his leg, but there was nothing beyond honest interest in her question; no morbid curiosity and no pity. To his surprise, he found himself telling her the truth.

"It's not an injury; nobody really knows _what_ it is. The doctors keep telling me it's purely psychosomatic," he gritted his teeth. "I don't care. It _hurts_! And this lousy weather doesn't help."

She nodded in understanding. "I had an uncle; he used to be a pilot. Once he crashed with his plane; got rescued with nary a scratch on him, but he could never use his legs properly again," she lifted the tape. "Try the main road. There are always cabs looking for a fare."

"Thanks," John murmured, ducking under the tape.

"But you're not his friend," she said unexpectedly, instead of the usual 'you're welcome' or 'don't mention it'.

John turned back to her in surprise. "What do you mean? Whose friend?"

"He doesn't _have_ friends," she continued without further clarification, although John guessed that Sherlock was meant. "So who _are_ you?"

"I'm..." John hesitated because really, how was he supposed to answer _that_ question? He didn't even know the answer himself. "I'm nobody," he finally said, his voice full of bitterness when he realised the sad truth of his own words. "I just met him."

She nodded as if this were a story she'd heard many times; a story that had always ended badly. "Okay, bit of advice then," she said. "Stay away from that guy."

Her voice was intense and her dark eyes were worried. Honestly worried. There was more going on than just a police officer being annoyed with an obnoxious amateur, John realised.

"Why?" he asked, almost afraid of the answer she might give him.

"You know why he's here?" she answered his question with one of her own. "He's not paid or anything. He _likes_ it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and Sherlock Holms will be the one that put it there."

John watched her expression closely to see if this was some kind of morbid joke but had to realise that it wasn't. Sergeant Donovan truly believed what she was saying. She was genuinely afraid that one day this would happen.

Whether she was right about that or not, that was a different question, of course-

"Why would he do that?" John finally asked.

"Because he's a psychopath," she replied darkly. "And psychopaths get bored."

It seemed as if she'd want to add something else, but in that moment Detective Inspector Lestrade appeared in the entrance of the house and yelled her name.

"Yeah, coming, sir," she called back. But before she'd do so, she gave John a final warning look. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes. For your own sake."

John stared at her retreating back for a long moment before calling his thanks after her.

"No worries," she replied without turning back.

~TBC~


	38. Part 38: The Shadow of Torchwood

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** For those not overly familiar with Torchwood: Maggie Hopley is indeed a canon character who featured in the 2nd Season episode "A Day in the Death".

* * *

**Part 38 – The Shadow of Torchwood**

"He _is_ brilliant, even while limited by a human existence," Mycroft said with something akin to pride in his voice. He'd been watching the crime scene in the company of Anthea and Ianto, courtesy of a microscopic router (alien technology, of course) installed in Sherlock's smarthphone.

"The only thing he got wrong was the unhappily married part, but that's something he really couldn't know," Ianto agreed, somewhat reluctantly.

Mycroft looked at him in surprise. "How can _you_ know about it?"

"Cos I know _her_," Ianto replied, nodding at the picture of the poisoned woman. "Well, sort of. Owen had an encounter with her, almost two years ago. On a rooftop. It was her wedding anniversary, and she wanted to jump."

"That would reinforce Sherlock's analysis," Anthea pointed out logically. Ianto shook his head.

"No; she wanted to jump cos her newly wed husband died in a car accident on their way from the wedding to the honeymoon. She was still picking confetti from her hair when it happened. They'd been married less than an hour."

"Apparently, she didn't jump, though," Anthea said.

Ianto nodded. "Owen managed to talk her out of it. Reminding her that there still were many things in life worth living for. And… erm… showing her an alien device that produced a wonderful light show."

"Not a detail we should share with my dear brother," Mycroft said. "Do you know her name?"

"Ummm… Hopley, I think," Ianto replied, having sought for the right piece of information in his photographic memory for less than ten seconds. "Yes, that's it. Maggie Hopley. Last time I checked on her before the Hub got blown up; at that time she was working for one of the local women's magazines, running the gossip column.,"

"You _checked _on her?" Mycroft asked in surprise. "What for?"

Ianto looked at him seriously. "It was my job to keep an eye on people who'd had an alien encounter, be it alien technology or the aliens themselves. To see if the effect of Retcon still held."

"You made her forget…"

"…that she was going to kill herself, yes, and why she reconsidered," Ianto smiled grimly. "Being talked out of suicide by a zombie isn't exactly a memory most people would want to keep anyway. We planted the suggestion in her mind that she'd gradually gotten over the trauma and was ready to start living again."

"She wasn't German, though, was she?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Ianto said, "but the family of her late husband was. _Hopley_ is the Anglicised version of _Hoffner_."

"In that case, annoying Mr Anderson might have been right," Mycroft said. "Not that Sherlock would ever admit, of course."

"Of course," Ianto agreed.

"So what are we to do, sir?" Anthea asked. "Send him the file on Ms Hopley?"

Mycroft shook his head. "Oh, no; he wanted to do this for a living – he should do the legwork himself. However, we could… _nudge_ him into the right direction before anyone else dies."

"Which direction would that be, sir?" Anthea asked. Extremely efficient she might be, but there was _one_ thing she lacked: imagination.

Mycroft gave her one of his pinched smiles. "I hoped Mr Jones would have a suggestion."

Ianto thought for a moment – then a broad smile appeared on his face. "Yes, sir, I think I do."

* * *

Sherlock had just reached Baker Street, ready to stretch out on the sofa and do some thinking, when his phone made a _pling_, announcing an incoming message. He fished it out of his coat pocket and glared at it in suspicion. The number was that of his brother's ninja butler; what the hell did Jones want from him? He had a case; he didn't have the time for Mycroft's antics.

He opened the message with a scowl. It was short and cryptic.

_Detective Kathy Swanson, Cardiff Police. IJ_

And a phone number, presumably the one on which he could reach the detective. It was clearly a landline, which annoyed him. He preferred to text.

Was Mycroft now spying on his cases, too? It wouldn't really surprise him. Well, if his brother wanted to help, he could as well give it a try. Jones _was_ Welsh, after all; perhaps he knew something. But Sherlock didn't nurture any hopes that the butler would actually _tell_ him. No; if he wanted the information, he'd have to call the detective lady in Cardiff. It was, at least, a lead, and he decided to follow it.

He dialled the number, and his call was picked up almost immediately.

"Detective Swanson," a deep, pleasant female voice said in a clipped manner.

_Single, in her early thirties_, his brain supplied the details. _A parent, most likely; a single parent, too, used to be obeyed. Barely audible Welsh accent, with some ethnic colouring, so she's been living there for a while but isn't Welsh herself; probably black. Educated tones but not in the snobbish way, so university, but not the elite ones; Cardiff, most likely. Not a smoker, the voice is smooth, without those telling little scratches in it. Sounds professional, but not in that enforced way like Donovan; it comes to her naturally._

Sherlock decided that she must be the no-nonsense type; he liked those. He briefly considered impersonating Lestrade, but decided against it in the end. She sounded smart enough to come behind the trick, and then she wouldn't cooperate anymore.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself; it was unlikely that the Cardiff police would have heard about him. "I work with Detective Inspector Lestrade from New Scotland Yard. We had a female victim without identification, who's presumably from Cardiff. May I send you a photo through my phone for possible identification?"

"You can try," Detective Swanson replied, "but unless she's got a criminal record, it's gonna be difficult. We don't have a full database of driving licences – yet."

"It's worth a try, though," Sherlock said. "Can you give me the number of your mobile phone?"

"I can do better," she answered. "I can give you the e-mail address of my office, and as soon as your photo arrives, we can run it through the face recognition software. It's actually a pretty advanced version, so even if she hasn't got a criminal record, she might be found on some archived CCTV footage."

She was talking too much. Sherlock was getting impatient. Still, he held back because this was his best chance to get the victim identified by the police, and he didn't want to jeopardise it.

"Very well," he said. "Give me the address."

She rattled it down and he saved it on his smartphone, sending her the photo at once.

He then texted: _Call me if you have something. SH_.

To his surprise, his phone rang less than five minutes later.

"I know who your victim is," Detective Swanson said without preamble. "Her name is Maggie Hopley."

"So she _does_ have a criminal record?" that surprised him. All right, she was a serial adulteress, but she didn't seem to have a connection to any criminal activities.

"No," Swanson replied, "but she _was_ involved in a crime, nearly three years ago."

"As a helper?" Sherlock asked, still doubtful.

"No," Swanson answered grimly. "As a victim."

~TBC~


	39. Part 39: Saved by the Bell

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note: **Back to canon stuff for a short while, but it's transient. The title of this part will actually make sense – only later on. Some lines are quoted from the unaired pilot or from the first episode, respectively. Sorry, but it was necessary.

* * *

**Part 39 – Saved by the Bell**

John suppressed a sigh and began to limp up the main road as Sergeant Donovan had suggested. It was farther than he'd expected, and soon he was leaning heavily on his cane. Another couple of metres and he had to stop for a moment to catch his breath, silently cursing his injury, rehab and the sorry shape in which he was as a result.

Dammit, but he had really become a shadow of his own self, in a mere few months! At the age of thirty-nine, he was a burned-out husk already! A burden for himself and for those around him.

There was a subtle change in the night lights, as if a cloud had passed before the moon. He glanced up – and his mouth hung literally open for a moment. Standing on top of a tall Victorian building nearby, in the middle of its many ornate chimney pods, stood Sherlock Holmes, dramatically backlit by the almost full moon. It was like a scene from one of those over-romanticized vampire films that seemed to have become so popular lately.

John couldn't help himself. The whole thing was just too hilarious to bear. He bent over his cane and giggled uncontrollably. Sherlock Holmes, the consulting vampire! Well, it was a pretty sight, for sure, and with that dramatic greatcoat Sherlock certainly could have pulled a Prince of the Night convincingly.

John looked around to see if any of the police were watching. Sergeant Donovan would have _loved_ the scene, he was certain about that. But no, there was no-one around. He glanced back up to the roof. Sherlock was still there, clearly oblivious to being watched, and was looking all around the area from his high vantage point, as if trying to find something… or someone.

_Like a predator trying to locate his prey_, the thought occurred to John, wondering if it was Sergeant Donovan's influence. After all, Mike wouldn't try to sell him to a psychopathic murderer, would he?"

"Need a cab, sir?" he jumped and nearly lost his balance. He was so focused on Sherlock on the rooftop that he hadn't heard the taxi pulling up right next to him.

"Cab, sir?" the driver repeated, staring at him through the open side window. He was a relatively young man – younger than John anyway – and strangely colourless: pale, with curly straw blond hair and watery eyes.

John sighed. "Well, why not?" he climbed into the back seat with a last glance at the rooftop, but Sherlock was already gone.

"Address?" the cabbie asked.

For some reason he couldn't explain, not even to himself, John gave him the address of his bed-sit. True, it was much closer to Brixton than Baker Street, which meant a much lesser fee, but that wasn't the reason. Suddenly, he wanted to be alone and couldn't wait to be back in that dank little place. That was where he belonged, with the rest of the useless junk that had become his life.

Clearly, the police didn't need him; and neither did Sherlock. He had briefly given in to nurturing false hopes, which was childish.

Sitting upright in the back of the taxi, he started rocking backwards and forwards slightly as if urging it to go faster. The cabbie was watching him in the rear view mirror with the strange intensity of a snake staring at a bird it had selected for dinner.

"You late or something?" he finally asked.

John glanced at his watch, then out of the front window to see where they were. "No, not particularly. Why?"

There was an edge in his voice, and the creepy young man back-pedalled. "Sorry. You just look a bit… wired."

"Wired?" John snapped. "What do you mean _wired_?"

Clearly intimidated, the cabbie didn't answer, just kept watching him nervously in the mirror. A few minutes later the cab stopped in front of the building that housed his bed-sit. John paid the cabbie and limped into the building without looking back.

Switching the light on, he collapsed on his bed with a weary sigh. Then he put his cane down beside him and opened the drawer of the bedside table, revealing his gun and his laptop. After a moment of hesitation, he reached fort he gun… not for the first time, but probably – hopefully – for the last one.

Before he could have grabbed the weapon, though, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen. _Unknown number_, it said. He ignored the call and bent down to undo his shoes. He might as well make himself comfortable for this final act.

The phone rang again. _Unknown number_, it said again. John ignored it and undid his left shoe. The phone kept ringing. Still the unknown number. John rolled his eyes and undid his other shoe, toeing both shoes off end enjoying the small comfort of stocking feet.

The damn phone rang again. _Unknown number_, as before. John suppressed a frustrated sigh and finally picked it up. "Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left," the male voice on the other end of the connection was soft, cultured, posh… and just a tiny bit threatening. "Do you see it?"

"Who's this?" John demanded. "Who's speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Doctor Watson?" the voice continued unerringly.

John hobbled to the window and spotted the CCTV camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. He pulled a face. "Yeah, I see it."

It would have been hard not to. The thing was _very_ visible.

"Watch," the vice said, and the camera swung around, pointing directly at John. "There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John looked across to the second camera, which is also pointed towards his window.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right," the voice continued.

John stares up into the third camera which was also watching him, apparently, although the reason escaped him.

"How are you doing this?" he asked, but – as expected – he didn't get any answer

"Come down to the street, Doctor Watson," the voice said. "A car will be waiting for you. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you."

Holding his now dead phone at arm's length, John looked down to the street – just in time to see a sleek black car pull up in front of the building.

"Damn it!" he muttered, pocketing the phone. Then he grabbed his cane and limped down to the street."

~TBC~


	40. Part 40: A Mysterious Gentleman

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This part – and the next one – obviously contain a rewritten scene from "A Study in Pink" and uses some of the original dialogue. However, it was necessary to use some of the canon stuff, or else the part when we turn left from the known way wouldn't have made any sense.

* * *

**Part 40 – A Mysterious Gentleman**

A neat young man in a sharp three-piece suit got out of the car on the driver's side and opened the rear door for him.

"Please, get into the car, Doctor Watson," he said with a soft Welsh lilt in his pleasant voice. "You're expected."

After a moment of hesitation John climbed into the back seat – right next to a pretty brunette who studiously ignored him, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry as she way typing away on it with an almost alarming speed. John valiantly tried to make polite small talk, introducing himself, but she gave him an obviously false name, smiling brightly at him for a moment before she returned to texting away on her phone.

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John made a last effort.

She finally looked up from the phone. "None at all…" she smiled briefly again before returning to that blasted phone... John.'

At that point John gave up and sat silently in the car, staring out of the side window.

Understandably enough, he was more than a little suspicious when the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse – like in some cheap, second-grade American action film, really. The man, however, who was standing in the centre of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an old-fashioned umbrella and wearing a sharply tailored dark suit that probably had cost more than John's entire wardrobe _and_ the rest of his possessions, couldn't have been more English if he'd stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. Down to the double-breasted waistcoat and the vintage pocket watch, the golden chain of which was threaded through the buttonhole of aforementioned waistcoat.

_A blazing dandy, with too much money to his name and too much time at his hands_, John was fuming silently as he climbed out of the car and limped towards the obvious mastermind behind his kidnapping, leaning heavily on his cane. _Dark suit for the dark warehouse – what a stupid cliché!_ The only thing missing was a pair of sunglasses and it could have been _Matrix – Reloaded _all over again! It was overdramatic and ridiculous.

Suddenly John didn't feel nervous anymore. He'd been a soldier, for God's sake; he'd fought in Afghanistan, operated under heavy fire and survived. In fact, he still had a gun in his pocket, while the only weapon the sorry excuse of a criminal mastermind seemed to have was that hilarious umbrella. So, unless he had a blade hidden in its handle – and was _really_ quicksilver fast – John found he had nothing to fear.

"Have a seat, John," Mr Tall, Overdressed and Mysterious said, gesturing with the point of said umbrella to a straight-backed, armless chair that was facing him.

John ignored the offer – as if he'd ever put himself in such a strategically disadvantageous position! – and continued limping towards him.

"You know, I've got a phone," he said casually, taking a sharp look around him but if there _were_ any snipers hiding in the warehouse, they were hiding well. "I mean, very clever and all that, but er ... you could just phone me again. On my phone," he added, in case the bloke was an idiot. "Like you did half an hour ago. We could have met in a café like two civilized people and discuss whatever you may want to discuss with me."

"I do not frequent cafés," the man replied with faint disdain in his soft, cultured voice. "Too many people, too much noise, too little privacy. When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet – hence this place."

John shrugged. "Suit yourself," he leaned on his cane more heavily. All the excitement of the day began to weigh down on him; all he wanted was to return to his bleak little place and sleep for the next three days or so. If he was _very_ lucky, the nightmares might even leave him alone for a change.

"The leg must be hurting you," his kidnapper said; that pleasant voice became a little sterner. "Sit down."

Anger flared in John. He was so fed up with people patronizing him, pitying him – looking at him and seeing _not_ Captain John Hamish Watson, the best damn surgeon that had ever served with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but just a crippled war veteran, all but broke, no family, no job, no purpose. He'd be damned if he let this overbearing ponce do the same!

"I don't _want_ to sit down!" he snapped in his irate officer's voice that used to make the lesser ranks quake in their boots. Sometimes even the higher ranks, in fact. The short temper of Three Continents Watson, whenever he was _not_ dealing with patients, was the stuff of legends among the fighting troops.

The man looked at him curiously… and a bit disappointed?

"You don't seem very afraid," he commented. Yep, definitely disappointment. Apparently, the bloke was used to people _being_ afraid of him.

John gave him a challenging look. "You don't seem very frightening," he replied.

That earned him an unexpected laugh from Mr Enigma.

"Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"You tell me," John replied flatly cause really, the bloke must have been fearless – or very stupid indeed – to say such things to _him_ of all people. He'd broken the nose of people for less provocation. "Look, can we stop talking in riddles and come to the point? This is getting tedious, and I'm tired. Just say what you want and be done with it. Preferably today."

"Very well," the pleasant smile – as hideously fake as Sherlock's had been at _Bart's_ on the previous day – vanished, giving room to the sharp expression of an experienced interrogator. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

~TBC~


	41. Part 41: Losing the Bet

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This part – and the next one – obviously contain a rewritten scene from "A Study in Pink" and uses some of the original dialogue. However, it was necessary to use some of the canon stuff, or else the part when we turn left from the know way wouldn't have made any sense.

* * *

**Part 41 – Losing the Bet**

So far, Mycroft had enjoyed his encounter with Dr. Watson. The man was not easily intimidated but, given his past, that wasn't surprising. Nonetheless, the connection between bravery and stupidity was doubtlessly a close one. Even as a mere human, in his position Mycroft would have been a very dangerous enemy. Given who – and _what_ – he truly was, he could probably be counted as the most dangerous person on this planet.

Something that even Sherlock admitted, despite his blissful ignorance of their true identity.

It was time to raise the stakes.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" he asked in a slightly menacing tone, and Dr. Watson stared back at him in confusion.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him..." he looked away as if surprised as that he hadn't realised until now how little time had passed... "yesterday."

Mycroft raised a sardonic eyebrow.

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

He expected a flash of anger, protests that Watson wasn't gay or the correction that he hadn't actually moved in with Sherlock, not _yet_ anyway (although Mycroft was quite sure that he _would_, and that shortly). Instead, the man simply stared at him in suspicion.

"Who are you?"

Now _that_ was a loaded question… with half a dozen possible answers, none of which the exiled Time Lord was willing to give at this time.

"An interested party," he replied instead, which was the truth. Or rather one aspect of the truth.

John Watson, of course, couldn't even fathom the many layers hidden behind that simple truth and so, being a straightforward man, he went straight for clarification.

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

The man was definitely observant, even though he'd possibly come to the wrong conclusion. Mycroft, the Watcher, was not and had never been interested in the Doctor _that_ way. Only a few of his benighted companions ever had, and only in recent times.

"You've met him," Mycroft replied to Dr Watson's question. "How many 'friends' do you imagine he has?"

Which, again, was very true. The Doctor had never been very good at making friends. Companions, some of which had worshipped the ground he walked on, yes. Allies who had found him useful – albeit annoying – like some UNIT brass, yes. But friends? Even back on Gallifrey, the people he used to be closest to had been the Rani and the Master, which told one more than enough about the quality of 'friends' he tended to make.

Well, there was Romana, of course, but there are exceptions from every rule. And even Romana had left him after a while, to seek out a higher purpose in E-space.

"I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having," Mycroft added thoughtfully.

"And what's that?" Dr Watson seemed quite unconvinced about that.

"An enemy," Mycroft said simply, remembering the Doctor's desperate efforts to save the Master, despite the fact that the latter had the Toclafane massacre half the planet the Doctor was usually so protective of. Yes, his fellow Time Lord was particularly taken by his own worst enemies.

"An enemy?" Dr Watson repeated, baffled… and who could blame him for that? Even after a millennium, Mycroft himself still found the Doctor's – _Sherlock's_ – reactions utterly confusing.

"In his mind, certainly," he said. "If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

Dr Watson looked around the warehouse with a sarcastic grimace. "Well, thank God _you're_ above all that."

_Touché_! Mycroft thought a little ruefully. The man was right: he _did_ love a good dramatic entrance. It was a Time Lord thing, really; they all were genetically inclined to pomp. Which clearly didn't impress Dr Watson a bit, though, as he took out the phone of his pocket when a text alert sounded, checking out the incoming message.

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Unfortunately, that too, was totally lost on Dr. Watson.

"Not distracting me at all," he replied casually, taking his sweet looking up from the phone before pocketing it. "It's not so as if I'd have lots of important things to do."

There was a bitter note in his voice; something that would explain why he'd consider moving in with Sherlock: the desperate need for a purpose.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft already knew the answer, but sometimes one had to play out one's hand according to the rules.

"I could be wrong," Dr. Watson said slowly, "but I think that's none of your business."

"It could be," Mycroft countered, a little ominously, but Dr. Watson didn't back off an inch, his stance stiffening.

"It really couldn't," the tone was military-clipped.

Time to change tactics, Mycroft thought; besides, there was the matter of his bet with Ianto. A bet he didn't intend to lose, for many different reasons, personal pride being just one of them – and not even the most important one. He took the notebook from his inside pocket, opened it and pretended to consult it as he spoke.

Of course, being made of psychic paper, it _would_ produce the expected notes, should anyone want to check. Useful little tool, psychic paper was.

"If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way," Mycroft said, then he closed the notebook and put it away again, pretending that he hadn't seen Dr Watson's bewildered expression.

"Why?" Watson finally asked, his voice flat with mistrust.

Mycroft deliberately misunderstood the question. "Because you're not a wealthy man."

Annoyance flickered across the doctor's open face. "In exchange for what?" he clarified.

"Information," Mycroft replied bluntly. "Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to."

"Why?" Dr. Watson repeated, still in that flat voice.

"I worry about him. Constantly," Mycroft confessed, knowing all too well how insincere that simple truth must have sounded under the circumstances. But that couldn't be helped right now.

"That's nice of you," Dr. Watson's voice was saccharine laced with poison; just like Mycroft's own, in fact, which was vaguely disturbing.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned," Mycroft continued in his best persuasive manner. "We have what you might call a... difficult relationship."

And wasn't _that_ the truth! Before he could go on, though, Watson's phone trilled another text alert. The doctor fished it out immediately again and looked at the message, while answering to Mycroft's offer with a casual "No".

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," Mycroft wasn't about to give up his plan so easily.

Dr. Watson pocketed his phone again. "Don't bother."

"You're very loyal, very quickly," Mycroft laughed in disbelief. The thought that he might lose the bet to Ianto had never occurred to him – until this ever moment – and the possible ramifications made him uneasy beyond what he'd felt for a very long time.

"No, I'm not," Dr. Watson replied, looking him straight in the eye, tipping his head back a little to be able to do so. "I'm just not interested."

_Ah, all right, then_, Mycroft thought. _Time to break out the big gun._

~TBC~


	42. Part 42: Nor The Battle To The Strong

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This is the last part of the rewritten Mycroft scene from "A Study in Pink". Things will go a lot more AU after that.

* * *

**Part 42 – "Nor The Battle To The Strong"**

_I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favours to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all. – Ecclesiastes 9:11_

* * *

John watched with a frown as the creepy bloke took out his notebook and opened it again, clearly reading a note from it.

"_Trust issues_, it says here," he drawled, and for the first time since their encounter had begun, John felt panic rising inside him.

_Trust issues_ was something Ella nagged him all the time, accusing him of reading her notes upside down. Which he did, of course, every time. He needed to know what she had been writing about him. But how could this guy know about it? Why would he _want_ to know about it in the first place?

"What's that?" John demanded, although he had the strong suspicion that it was a transcript of his therapy sessions.

The guy was still looking down at his notebook. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?" John asked in honest surprise cause really, the thought hadn't even occurred to him. He was fascinated by the enigmatic detective, but _that_ had nothing to do with trust. At all.

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily," the guy elaborated, still consulting his notebook.

John, however, was fed up with the entire situation. He _did_ have friends, thank you very much. There was Mike Stamford, the rugby lads from Blackheath, his Army buddies, Bill Murray before all else… plenty of friends, actually. Granted, they had drifted apart due to his long service in Afghanistan, and then his hospitalization, but he could pick up where they had left it any time he wanted. Hadn't it been Mike's first reaction to help him find a flatmate as soon as they accidentally met in that park?

He _was_ good at making friends, and at keeping them, too. This man was an idiot.

"Are we done?" John asked in his flat Captain Watson voice.

The man looked up from the notebook, straight into his eyes. "You tell me."

They locked glares for a moment, and then John turned his back on the other man and started to walk away unhurriedly.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him," the man called after him, "but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

John stopped dead on his track. His hand, which disabled him to work as a surgeon ever again, was a sore spot for him, and the fact that this complete stranger clearly knew about it, although he hadn't even told Mike (or Harry, for that matter) made him furious. He whirled around, as quickly as his limp allowed, fighting the desire to introduce the guy's smug face to said left hand. Preferably in the form of a closed fist.

"My _what_?" he asked through gritted teeth.

The man was leaning on his umbrella casually again, like somebody who was used to having his orders obeyed. Based on his obvious wealth and knowledge of things he shouldn't have known, he probably was.

"Show me," he said calmly.

Once again, John refused to be intimidated. He did raise his left hand, bending it at the elbow, but otherwise didn't move an inch from where he was standing. If the bloke wanted to take a look at his hand, for whatever creepy reason, he'd have to come to _him_.

The message apparently got over, as creepy bloke strolled forward, hooking the handle of that blasted umbrella over his arm and reached for John's hand. John instantly pulled the hand back a little.

"Don't!" he warned. He hated if people pawed his _problem hand_, as he'd come to call it. Even if they were doctors. They couldn't heal it anyway.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at him. "What was that about trust issues again?"

John gritted his teeth but held out his hand flat with the palm down for the guy to examine it. Which the man did, taking it in both of his hands. His touch was cool and soft… surprisingly pleasant, actually.

"Remarkable," he commented.

John snatched his hand away, his anger flaring again. "What?" he demanded.

The man didn't answer directly. Instead, he turned and walked a few paces away.

"Most people blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars," he said softly, as if talking to himself. "When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, however, you see the battlefield," he turned back, looking at John intently. "But you… you've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" John demanded, despite the fact that he knew the answer already. Well, the medical explanation anyway.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand," came the answer, just as he'd expected. "Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

John felt a muscle in his cheek twitch repeatedly. "Who the hell are you? How do you know that?"

Instead of a straightforward answer, the man gave him a conspiratory almost-smile.

"Fire her," he suggested, and John couldn't help but whole-heartedly agree with that suggestion, cause Ella was really useless. A complete waste of time and money… even if it was the Army's money, not his own. And even if he really didn't have anything better to do with his time.

Too much time and nothing to do with it. Now that was a problem he'd never accepted to have in his previously busy life.

"She's got it the wrong way round," the man continued. "You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady."

John couldn't help glancing down at his hand. To his amazement, the creepy guy was correct.

"You're not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson... you miss it," the creepy guy leaned closer to him, right into his personal space, and John struggled _not_ to step back defensively. He really hated when people got into his face like this.

"Welcome back," the man whispered, and then he turned around and walked away, just as John's phone sounded another text alert. He casually twirled his umbrella as he did so, and John involuntarily had to think of old-fashioned villains twirling their moustaches.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson," he called back over his shoulder in a singsong voice.

John studied his left hand for a moment, smiled at the lack of any tremor, and then got out his phone and checked the new message. Just like the previous two, it was from Sherlock Holmes, urging him to come to 221B Baker Street. The last message read: _Could be dangerous. SH_

John allowed himself another wry smile. Perhaps the creepy bloke wasn't such an idiot, after all.

Behind him, the car door opened and the pretty brunette with the obviously false name got out and tiptoed towards him in her high heels, her attention still riveted to the BlackBerry held in front of her in both hands. How she could walk on those heels without even looking was one of the great mysteries of womanhood that no man could hope to understand.

Unless she was some kind of robot, of course, which would have been a shame.

"I'm to take you home," she told John. "Address?"

John hesitated for a moment. "Baker Street," he said, making in a split second the decision that would change his life forever. "221B Baker Street."

~TBC~


	43. Part 43: Evaluations

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** And here's where AU country begins; it won't always be a nice place. Canon has left the building and won't be back for a while.

* * *

**Part 43 – Evaluation**

Less than an hour later the car returned to Mycroft's house on Pall Mall. He'd got home much earlier, of course. His time was too valuable to wait idly in an empty warehouse for the return of his PA. And besides, that was why he had more than just one car. His position made it possible, and considering how often he'd helped to save the country from various disasters in the recent decades, working silently in the background, he didn't see why should he not use the benefits of the job as well.

"Doctor Watson asked to be taken to 221B Baker Street," Anthea reported, showing him Sherlock's messages that had been rerouted through her BlackBerry, like everything else coming from Sherlock's phone. It was standard surveillance process.

Mycroft frowned. "That's odd. I thought he'd want to collect his belongings from the bed-sit first. What little he owns could be packed into a single suitcase anyway."

"The only thing he really needed he already had on him," Ianto said. At Mycroft's blank look, he added. "His Army pistol, sir. A Sig Sauer P226R, British Army equipment designation L106A1, issued to soldiers serving in Afghanistan. Surely you've spotted it, too. It was tucked into the back of the waistband of his jeans the whole time."

Mycroft blinked. "Oh, yes, of course. I should have thought of that. Apparently, I was too concentrated on winning him over."

"At which you obviously failed," Ianto pointed out mercilessly, "which means you owe me, since I won our bet. But sir, you should be more careful with Doctor Watson. He's an excellent marksman, according to his service record; you shouldn't trust that umbrella of yours so much. A sonic weapon is handy, but not always enough against a real, honest, down-to-Earth Army pistol. Especially concealed in such an impractical form. From close distance, you'd have been defenceless."

"Next time I'll think of keeping my distance," Mycroft promised, knowing that Ianto was right. Even after half a century in human disguise, he sometimes underestimated how unpredictable humans could react to provocation. And he'd certainly done his best to provoke Dr. Watson repeatedly. In fact, the man had held his anger remarkably well under control.

"How well are you satisfied with the outcome of this meeting, sir?" Anthea asked. "It didn't exactly turn out according to your plans."

Mycroft shrugged. "Actually, I'm quite content. Certainly, having an insider to inform us on a regular basis would have been useful, but having somebody with so strong moral principles living with my 'brother' is a good thing, too. Some of his previous incarnations moved in the grey zone at times, and we can't know yet how much of _that_ got absorbed into his human nature. We'll have to wait and see."

"I'm still collecting my debt, though, sir," Ianto declared.

Mycroft gave him a disturbed look. "Are you sure about that, Ianto? What do you hope from torturing Mr Dekker? It won't bring back Jack's grandson, or Mr Frobisher's family, or all the people who died with you in Thames House… and neither will it make Jack return any earlier."

"I know," Ianto replied dispassionately," but I need to know who was behind the whole conspiracy. Since Brian Green was clearly a coward and an idiot, _somebody_ must have pulled the strings in the background. A criminal mastermind _or_ an over-ambitious and completely ruthless politician… Whichever it was, I want them."

The icy cold in his voice made even Mycroft shiver. "What do you hope from that?" he pressed.

"Justice for the dead," Ianto said coldly. "Since I'm the only one of them who returned, it's up to me to see that the ultimate cause behind those deaths won't get away unpunished. And I expect the Doctor to help me, since he couldn't be bothered to be here when the 456 came."

"He couldn't be here every time something went wrong," Mycroft pointed out reasonably.

"Well, then he shouldn't have destroyed the career of Prime Minister Harriet Jones when he _was_ here," Ianto returned. "She, at least, had the courage to use Torchwood's resources to defend this pathetic little planet. Without her reputation ruined, the Master would have had a much harder time to rise to power; and who knows, we might even be spared Brian Green's idiocy."

"You can't know that," Mycroft said.

"No," Ianto agreed, "but it is a reasonable estimate, sir. In any case, I'm determined to find the person behind the whole 456 disaster, and Mr Dekker is the square to start from."

"And when you find them?" Mycroft asked. "How are you going to bring proof? The entire 456 situation has been explained away as mass hallucination, an illusion created by a worldwide network gone mad and suicidal cults. How are you planning to get the person responsible for all this to court?"

"I'm not planning anything like that," Ianto said darkly. "I'm going to deal with them the Torchwood way; by disposing of all potential dangers to Earth. Or are you telling me, sir, that somebody who was ready to sell our children to malevolent aliens and to have everyone murdered who could have prevented them from doing so isn't a danger for Earth?"

Mycroft remained silent for a while because there was a great deal of truth in Ianto's bitter words. Still, it saddened him to see such a young man so full of vengeful anger. But again, one couldn't expect a mere human to die and then come back from the death unchanged. Some of the darkness lurking beyond the final threshold ought to leak through. He wondered what that would mean for Jack Harkness and his many hundreds of deaths.

Then another, even more disturbing thought occurred to him.

"Ianto, that human skull on Sherlock's mantelpiece, the one he calls a friend of his… who _was_ that?"

"Just as your 'brother' likes to say: a friend of his," Ianto replied with a dark little smile. "The one he so badly wanted to save the last time they met that he forgot all about Jack dying for him on a daily basis. The one who'd refused to regenerate, out of sheer spite. I thought he'd like to spend the rest of his natural life with such a dear old mate."

Despite everything he'd seen in his long life, Mycroft needed a few movements to overcome his shock. He'd never expected Ianto – polite, smooth-mannered, sharp-suited Ianto Jones who brewed the best coffee in three galaxies – to be so vicious. If _this_ was what death did to humans, then they really shouldn't have more than just one life.

"You should be careful how much darkness you allow to enter your heart, Ianto," he finally said. "It might take you over completely if you don't look out."

Ianto shrugged but didn't answer. Seeing that arguments would be pointless at this time, Mycroft suppressed a sigh, dismissed him and turned his attention back to the affairs of state. He had a country to run, after all… figuratively speaking.

~TBC~

**Okay, before anybody would start yelling at me for not warning them about dark!Ianto, consider that such a warning would have made the whole chapter kind of pointless.**


	44. Part 44: Entanglements

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** And we're crossing over to Torchwood territory. This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode "A Day in the Dead".

* * *

**Part 44 – Entanglements**

When John reached 221B Baker Street – after a half-hearted (and utterly failed) attempt to chat up the enigmatic not-Anthea – he expected to find Sherlock Holmes lying on the sofa of the living room, gazing vacantly at the ceiling while his brilliant brain was working. That was how he imagined brain work in Sherlock-land.

Instead, he found the consulting detective sitting in his armchair, like every normal person (albeit with rolled-up shirtsleeves) and pouring tea for a visitor: a beautiful black woman of regal posture, wearing an elegant, charcoal-grey skirt suit with an aubergine blouse and surprisingly sensible flat shoes.

She was also clearly wearing a gun holster under her suit jacket, which made it clear that this was an official meeting, not a romantic one. Not that John could imagine Sherlock Holmes actually _dating_, despite his exotic good looks. He wondered briefly who the lady might be. Police? Secret Service? A professional assassin? After his encounter with the mysterious gentleman in the warehouse, he could imagine just about everything.

Hearing his footsteps, Sherlock looked at him for a moment, giving him a tight smile.

"Oh, John, good. Do come in and have a seat. Oh, and meet Detective Swanson fro the Cardiff Police.

"Oh," John echoed in surprise while shaking hands with the attractive lady officer. "So you found out who the last victim was, then? Nice to meet you, Detective Swanson. I'm John Watson."

"_Doctor_ John Watson," Sherlock emphasized. "My flatmate and assistant in this case."

He clearly didn't doubt for a moment that John was ready and willing not only to move in with him but also to work with him on the case. And he was absolutely right in both points, John admitted ruefully. He wondered though if Sherlock worked with the Cardiff Police, too.

"You've found out who the pink lady was?" he repeated his question.

"Actually, Detective Swanson did," Sherlock replied. "The Cardiff Police had her in the system cause she was involved in a hit-and-run car accident, back in 2006."

"She and her newly wedded husband were on their way to the honeymoon when another car rammed them from the side," Detective Swanson explained. "The husband died on the spot – he'd been the one driving – and Maggie, that was her name, Maggie Hopley, hit her head hard enough not to remember anything about the exact circumstances. She was on suicidal watch for a year afterwards, but in the end she seemed to get her act together again and start her life anew."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock waved impatiently. "What about the accident itself? Were there any witnesses?"

"Just one," Detective Swanson leafed through the contents of her folder until she found the printed-out testimony. It was a very short one. "A young student from London, on a holiday trip in Cardiff with his school class. He said the car was hit by a black Audi, driven by a grey-haired, elderly man."

John wasn't the world's only consulting detective but even he could hear the doubt in Swanson's voice.

"You think he was lying?" he asked. Swanson shrugged.

"Lying or simply wrong. According to the paint particles found on the Hopley's car where it had been hit, it must have been a black car indeed. But this particular sort of gloss paint is used for luxury BMWs, not for Audis. Usually. It's always possible that some car nerd would use non-regular paint when prettying up his car, though, so we can't be entirely sure about that."

"So you never actually found the car?" Sherlock seemed extremely annoyed. John was half-expecting him to launch a spectacular rant about the incompetence of the police in general and Detective Swanson in particular but, to his surprise, it didn't happen. Perhaps because Detective Swanson's no-nonsense attitude made it clear that she wouldn't take shit from anyone. After all, Sherlock had sought out _her_ help, not the other way round.

"Oh, we tried," she said grimly. "And _how_ we tried. PC Davidson, who used to know Brian Hopley – the dead husband," she added for them, "– systematically checked every car mechanic's service in a radius of a hundred miles around the accident scene. He went and looked at every damaged car that could be considered personally. He checked all hospitals and private practices in the area, in case the driver of the other car was injured, too, and needed medical assistance. He spoke to the only witness repeatedly, in the hope to find out more details. He found _nothing_. Absolutely nothing."

"That's odd," Sherlock murmured. "It was a simple accident, not a murder, wasn't it?"

Swanson nodded. "According to forensics, yeah. A lot of similar accidents happen on that spot, actually. It's a risky patch if someone ignores speed limits."

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock said, his eyes gleaming with the excitement of a new puzzle. "And yet somebody has apparently gone great lengths to remove all possible evidence. Going so far as getting rid of the car involved – and that very thoroughly, it seems – and even buying a false witness."

John and Detective Swanson exchanged surprised looks.

"Sorry, a false witness?" John asked with a frown. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Oh, do pay attention, John! This testimony," he waved at them with the printout Swanson had showed him, "is a carefully constructed diversion. It contains some elements to match the actual car, like the colour and the size that would match the impact, but the rest of it is pure fantasy."

"Meaning that we're looking for a BMW that was driven by somebody who wasn't greying at all?" John asked.

"Or if he was, he certainly coloured his hair afterwards," Swanson added. "_If_ the driver was a man in the first place, that is."

"Oh, he almost certainly was," Sherlock replied. "Somebody around forty or a bit older, returning from Cardiff to London after an alleged business trip with a woman most likely _not_ his wife, otherwise he'd simply have sent his lawyers to Ms Hopley and made a financial arrangement. He also must have been rich or influential enough – or both – to have the police investigation stopped… right?"

He looked askance at Swanson who nodded.

"Yeah. After a while Detective Inspector Henderson told us that a simple road accident, no matter how tragic, wasn't important enough to be pursued any longer. Not while we had numerous unsolved murder cases on our desks."

"Hmmm," Sherlock frowned. "Henderson has a good reputation on the Yard. Lestrade used to work with him on a few cases in the past. He must have got a phone call from higher above to leave the case alone.

Swanson nodded again. "Which is why I came myself to bring you the files. I was afraid they might get lost between Cardiff and New Scotland Yard, had I sent them through the official channels. I want this case solved, Mr Holmes. I don't like rich people get away with manslaughter, just cos they can buy their way out. And I don't want poor Maggie Hopley to have died for nothing. She was a nice girl; she deserved better."

"People rarely get what they deserve," Sherlock said dryly, "but in this case, I agree with you, Detective Swanson. This is an intriguing puzzle and I already know where we can start rolling the case up again."

"And that would be?" Swanson asked with a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock shrugged. "Why, with the false witness, obviously."

~TBC~


	45. Part 45: Connections

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode "A Day in the Dead".

* * *

**Part 45 – Connections**

"You really think he'd break _now_, after all the years?" Swanson asked doubtfully. "He'd kept his mouth shut ever since. Why would he speak _now_?"

"Two reasons," Sherlock actually counted hem down on his fingers. "One: whatever sum the driver might have paid the boy, he's most likely spent it by now. Young people usually do when they unexpectedly come to big money."

"True," Swanson allowed. "What's the other reason?"

"This time _I'm_ doing the investigation," Sherlock replied arrogantly. "I can't be called off the track by some bureaucrat. Let's find the boy, and I assure you I'll have the man behind him – _and_ the murderer of the pink lady – before the end of the week."

"Er…Sherlock, I'd be careful making such a bold statement," John finished reading the boy's testimony, which seemed a bit… constructed indeed.

Sherlock shook him an annoyed look. "And why's that?"

"Cause according to _this_," John waved with the copy, "the name of the false witness was James Phillimore."

"And?"

"And a James Phillimore of roughly the same age was the third victim of our serial killer," John grabbed the latest issue of the _Daily Mail_, listing the victims that could be identified so far, and handed it to Sherlock.

Surely enough, the name of James Phillimore was listed as third, after Sir Jeffrey Patterson, a well-known, middle-aged businessman of some renown, and somebody named Jennifer Wilson, but before Beth Davenport, local MP and Junior Minister of Transport. For obvious reasons, Maggie Hopley's name wasn't on the list yet.

For a moment Sherlock stared at the newspaper blankly – then his face lit up like the New Years' firework.

"Oh, brilliant! That's what we've been waiting for: the first connection between the victims! Now we know that the murderer wasn't just killing these people randomly; he's got criteria for his selection. We find the criteria, we solve the case."

"You think there is a connection between all victims?" John asked.

It was Swanson who answered him. "There has to be: otherwise it would be too much of a coincidence."

"The most obvious connection should be between Sir Jeffrey and Beth Davenport," Sherlock added. "They're both public figures, they ought to have run into each other in some way or another."

"Yeah, but how are you gonna figure out _what_ that connection is?" John asked. "What I saw on the telly, Sir Jeffrey's widow won't talk to you about the secret connections of her husband. She keeps rhapsodising about him as if he'd been a saint or whatnot."

"Fortunately, I've got my sources," Sherlock smirked. "It pays off having an enemy in a high position."

Swanson frowned at him, but it suddenly made _click_ in John's head.

"Would that be the arch-enemy of yours I've just had the questionable pleasure to meet in an empty warehouse?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him an amused look. "Did he kidnap you?" John nodded. "Don't take it personally; he does that to all my associates at least once. Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

John was taken aback by that question. "Actually… yes, he did."

"Hmmm…" Sherlock narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Did you take it?"

"No," John replied briefly, genuinely insulted. What did this guy think about him?

"Pity," Sherlock commented, completely blasé. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Charming," John pulled a face. Apparently, sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes would also mean regularly socializing with megalomaniac madmen. "So, who the hell is he? A criminal mastermind of some sort?"

"Close enough; although not in the way the police would define a criminal," Sherlock replied nonchalantly. "Let's just say that he's the most dangerous man you've ever met; but he does have his use sometimes. Like now."

He took out his phone and hit the key for speed-dial. His call was picked up immediately, and John was treated to one half of a highly interesting discussion.

"Mycroft? Yes, _of course_ it's me, whom did you expect? I need some data you might be able to provide. Cause it's important for a _case_, that's why! I need to know if there was any connection between two victims of the recent serial killer: Sir Jeffrey Patterson and Beth Davenport. Yes, I know you're above legwork but that's what you've minions for… like that female robot of yours, what's her name today? Athena, or Anthea, or whatever. Well, let her do something for her exorbitant salary, will you? There's finally movement in this case, and I don't want it to lag again. Bye."

He hung up and turned back to Swanson. "I expect we'll get the data within the hour. Anthea is almost disturbingly efficient when she gets assigned to a task."

"Does she really change her name regularly?" John asked, eager to learn more about the pretty brunette.

"All the time," Sherlock replied. "Forget about her, though. She's got the black belt in Baritsu and will break your arm if you bother her with your ridiculous romantic interest. Now, let's learn more about the victims; perhaps we'll find further connections."

John felt more than a little insulted that Sherlock thought his interest for the enigmatic Anthea would be ridiculous. But when Sherlock was on first name basis with the creepy guy from the warehouse (which he apparently _was_), then he perhaps knew the man's PA well enough, too.

So, instead of protesting, he sat down with Sherlock and the attractive detective lady, and they went through the victims' files with the fine-toothed comb. Sherlock had… _borrowed_ the files from Detective Inspector Lestrade and now they were looking for other possible connections the police might have overlooked.

They weren't even halfway through when Sherlock's laptop made a _ping_ sound, announcing an incoming e-mail.

"Oh, good, Mycroft's minions were busy," Sherlock quickly scanned the attachments – all fourteen of them! – and then let out a triumphant howl. "Oh, yes! I _knew_ there had to be something! Look at this?"

The attachments – all sorts of financial documents and political statements – said precious little to John. Detective Swanson, however, nodded in grim satisfaction.

"Well, that answers _one_ of our questions. It seems that Sir Jeffrey was one of Beth Davenport's main supporters when she ran for that seat in Parliament. It was mainly due to his money and influence that she became Junior Minister of Transport, too."

"A position that enabled her to stop a police investigation with some carefully issued pressure, seeing that it was an accident anyway," Sherlock added darkly.

"So, Sir Jeffrey was the one who hit the Hopleys' car, killing the husband in the process?" John asked, getting a hang on things.

Sherlock nodded. "Excellent, John. You're showing some progress at last."

John decided _not_ to hit him for that backhanded compliment.

"So we know what connected Sir Jeffrey to Beth Davenport _and_ to James Phillimore," Detective Swanson summarized. "What about Victim Nr 1, though, this," she checked the file, "this Jennifer Wilson?"

Sherlock gave her that pitying why-is-everyone-an-idiot look of his. "That would be quite obvious, wouldn't it? She was the one sitting with Sir Jeffrey in the car."

~TBC~


	46. Part 46: More Entanglements

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This part contains hints at the 2nd season Torchwood episode "A Day in the Dead".

* * *

**Part 46 – More Entanglements**

John had to admit that – even without any hard proof – _that_ certainly sounded logical and wondered why no-one had come to that conclusion before. But again, he guessed, that was what made Sherlock extraordinary: that he noticed things nobody else would. A quick glance at Detective Swanson revealed her complete agreement – both about the statement and about Sherlock's brilliance.

Good. It would make things easier if Sherlock didn't alienate her.

"Jennifer Wilson was Sir Jeffrey's affair then?" she clarified.

"Ex-affair, obviously, as he was already having another one with his current secretary recently," Sherlock replied absent-mindedly. "The fact that he was _not_ heading home when he left his office on the day he was murdered, _plus_ the fact that his wife portrayed him as a saint in the media but fired the secretary before Sir Jeffery would even be buried clearly proves it, don't you think? Now, we need to learn everything we can about this Jennifer Wilson. She was the first victim; that _must_ have some significance."

"Perhaps she was just the easiest for the murderer to catch unaware," Swanson suggested, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No, no, no; this is no ordinary serial killer. He's absolutely brilliant; he plans his every move very carefully, and he never leaves any evidence behind. No, the fact that he killed Jennifer Wilson first _must_ mean something; if only I could figure out _what_!" he grabbed his head with both hands in frustration. "_Think!_" he yelled at himself.

John and Detective Swanson exchanged amused glances, coming to a wordless understanding about the antics of their resident genius.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Swanson then asked.

Sherlock glared at her indignantly. "What?"

"Maggie Hopley," Swanson said. "She was killed, too; and if we are considering the accident that killed her husband to be the connection between the victims, why was _she_ killed? She was a victim in that accident, too. All the others were guilty in some manner. Either by causing the accident or by covering it up. Not her, though. She was innocent; believe me, we checked it. So, if that's the connection, why _was_ she killed?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to give a prompt answer… and found that he couldn't. The question obviously hadn't occurred to him just yet. Swanson nodded, having made his point.

"That's what bothers me," she elaborated. "If it weren't for Maggie, the killings would appear as some kind of belated vengeance for the accident…"

"… and she _did_ scratch the word _Rache_ into the floorboard before she died," John murmured. "Anderson said it's German for _vengeance_."

"Anderson's an idiot!" Sherlock snapped.

"That may be so, but in this particular case he…?" she looked at John for confirmation. John nodded. "He's right; _Rache_ does mean _vengeance_ in German. And Maggie's husband did have German roots. The Hopleys were originally called Hoffner, which comes from _Hoffnung_ – the German word for _hope_, or so Andy Davidson told me."

"But if it _was_ a vengeance act, then Maggie should be the killer, not Victim Nr. 5," John pointed out. "Unless the motivation behind _her_ killing was a different one… what?" he added, irritated, because Sherlock was staring at him with vacant eyes.

"Oh," he breathed. "Brilliant, John, absolutely brilliant!"

John shook his head in confusion. "What are you talking about? Seriously, what?"

"Never mind," Sherlock was back to full deduction mode again, talking a mile a minute. "Oh, this makes perfect sense, beautifully logical indeed! Let's put the pieces in the right order, shall we? Chronologically, the first crime was the accident: Sir Jeffrey and his affair ignore the speed limits, hit the car of the Hopleys, Brian Hopley dies. Years later, Jennifer Wilson, the ultimate case of the accident – after all, Sir Jeffrey had been in that car because he'd met her behind the back of his wife – is murdered. Left in some abandoned building like a piece of rubbish. The next victim is Sir Jeffrey himself; same motivation, same method. Then comes James Phillimore, the false witness who delivered a testimony that ensured the police wouldn't find Sir Jeffrey. And finally Beth Davenport who stopped the police investigation at Sir Jeffrey's request. So far, so obvious."

"Until Maggie Hopley gets killed," Swanson added. "Somehow Maggie must be the key to all this. The killings started a couple of months ago – why now? The accident happened in 2006. Why did the killer wait several years?"

"And why the German word?" John asked. "Maggie's _husband_ was the one with the German roots, not Maggie herself."

"Cause it's not Maggie this is all about," Sherlock replied with the suddenly enlightened look of someone who'd just figured everything out. "It's about her dead husband. _All_ victims committed a crime against _Brian_ Hopley."

"Even Maggie?" Swanson frowned. Sherlock nodded enthusiastically.

"_Especially_ Maggie, according to the twisted logic of our killer. The others were guilty in Brian's death and the covering up of the crime. But Maggie… she besmirched his memory by daring to get her life together again and start anew. No wonder she was so very careful, concealing her dates as business trips to London. No wonder she never dared to enter any lasting relationship. She must have known her killer… and how he'd react if he found out about her affairs, short-lived though they might be."

"She must have been deadly afraid of him, the poor woman," John muttered angrily.

"And with a good reason as we can see," Sherlock replied; then he turned to Swanson. "Do you know anything about Brian Hopley's family?"

"There isn't much to know," Swanson shrugged. "His parents had moved to Canada a decade or so ago. He had an older brother, Jeff Hopley, who came to the funeral but never actually lived in Cardiff, and we lost track on him shortly thereafter as we didn't have a reason to keep tab on him."

"Perhaps Detective Inspector Lestrade can help finding out his whereabouts," John suggested. "New Scotland Yard has its sources."

"Fortunately, so do I," Sherlock returned, "or else we'd have to wait for their negative results forever."

"So what, are you going to call your arch-enemy again?" John asked sarcastically.

Of course, sarcasm had absolutely no effect on Sherlock Holmes.

"No need for that," he declared, "since I've got _this_."

And with that, he picked up a small pink suitcase from behind the sofa, put it onto the coffee table and unzipped it.

~TBC~


	47. Part 47: The Pink Suitcase

**THE ADVENTURES OF A CONSULTING TIME LORD**

**by Soledad**

**Episode 03 – A Study in Pink**

**Disclaimer:** Both Dr. Who and Sherlock belong to the BBC. I'm just borrowing them to have some fun.

**Author's note:** This chapter uses some of the dialogue of the unaired pilot again, out of necessity, which belong exclusively to Steven Moffat, may his muse never abandon him.

* * *

**Part 47 – The Pink Suitcase**

John rose from his chair, taking hold of his cane and leaned heavily on it, his eyes wide with shock.

"Is that what I think it is?" he asked, "The pink lady's case? Maggie Hopley's?"

Sherlock nodded. "Her suitcase, yes. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake," he flipped the lid open. "Take a look at the impossible? The contents of her case."

"How did you get this?" Swanson asked suspiciously.

"By looking," was the short answer.

John rolled his eyes. "Looking _where_?"

Sherlock gave him a matching eyeroll of his own. "_Think_, John! What do we already know about the murderer?"

"Well," John began uncertainly, "we know it's a man."

"Very good, John, I see there's hope for you yet," Sherlock said sarcastically. "We also know he drove Maggie to Lauriston Gardens…."

"… and forgot about her suitcase," Swanson picked up the thought, clearly realising where Sherlock was going with it.

Unfortunately, John couldn't say the same about himself. "So he forgot the case. What about it?"

"Really, John, and you were doing so well," Sherlock snorted. "No man could be seen with this case without attracting attention to himself…"

"… so he had to get rid of it as soon as possible," Swanson finished the thought again.

"Obviously," Sherlock agreed. "Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. The man's not stupid."

"No, he's just an insane serial killer, so could you perhaps hold back with the admiration a bit?" Swanson commented dryly. "How did you find the suitcase again?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Quite simply. I checked every back street wide enough for a car within five minutes of Lauriston Gardens and looked for anywhere you could easily dispose of a bulky object without being observed."

"Oh!" the memory of spotting Sherlock, standing atop of a tall building, dramatically backlit by the moon like some vampire prince suddenly resurfaced in John's mind. "That's why I saw you on the rooftop, right before that weird cabbie would pick me up!"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock said impatiently. "Took me less than an hour to find the right skip… Wait, what weird cabbie?" he then asked, snatching up the tail end of John's question. John shrugged.

"Dunno. He seemed… weird, somehow. Like somebody who hadn't slept for days. Or was high on drugs, whatever. I was relieved when I could get out of his cab, seriously," he paused for a moment before giving Sherlock an awed look. "You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?"

Sherlock sat down opposite him, grinning in satisfaction. "Well, it _had_ to be pink, obviously. Everything _else_ on her was."

John shook his head in amazement. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're stupid," Sherlock replied; then he smiled briefly at John's affronted look. "Oh no, don't look like that. Practically everyone is."

"Speak for yourself," Swanson muttered. Sherlock ignored him.

"John, can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?" John tried to keep up with Sherlock's abrupt changes of topics – with limited success. With a resigned sigh, he dug his phone out of his jacket pocket and handed it to Sherlock; but Sherlock didn't take it.

"I want you to send a text," he said. There's a number, over there on the table. It's no use," he murmured to himself, "there's no other way. We'll have to risk it."

"Risk what?" Swanson asked sharply. "And why don't you use your own phone?"

"Always a chance the number will be recognised," Sherlock replied. "It's on the website. Now, John."

"Whom am I texting?" John asked suspiciously. Sherlock waved him off.

"Never mind. On the table, the number, now, please."

John shook his head in mild exasperation but picked up the small address label – presumably the one from the pink suitcase, as it was eye-wateringly pink, too – and started to type the number into his phone.

"Maybe Sergeant Donovan was right about you," he commented while typing.

Sherlock gave him a brief glance. "What did she say?"

"Said you were a psychopath," John replied.

"Oh!" Sherlock was clearly amused. "Didn't think she was that smart. She needs to do some more research, though. There's a marked difference between a psychopath and a high-functioning sociopath."

"She said one day they're gonna show up at the murder scene and you'll have provided the body," John continued, studiously ignoring Detective Swanson's alarmed look. In exchange, his comment got completely ignored by Sherlock.

"These words exactly," the world's only consulting detective said. "What happened at Lauritson Gardens? I must have blacked out."

John stared at him blankly. "You blacked out?"

"Would you stop asking stupid questions?" Sherlock huffed, then continued his narration. "Twenty-two Northumberland Terrace. Please come. Do you have it? Good. Then send it."

John did as he was told, then looked up at Sherlock. "Sent. What was that about?"

Sherlock smiled briefly and slid the address label back into the luggage tag.

"You'll see soon enough. Now we'll take a look at the contents of the case. Detective Swanson, if you'll do the honours…?"

"What are we looking for?" Swanson asked, rummaging through the late Maggie Hopley's personal things… which obviously had already been searched. Sherlock clearly didn't feel the least qualm about going through a lady's unmentionables.

"The impossible," Sherlock replied. "The _one_ impossible thing. "What do you see?"

"Not much," Swanson laid back the contents of the case, automatically folding everything neatly. "There's a change of clothes, a make-up bag, a washbag and a novel. What's so impossible?"

"Her mobile phone," Sherlock said promptly.

"There _isn't_ a mobile phone," Swanson pointed out.

Sherlock slammed his hands onto the arms of the chair and pulled his feet up under him so that he was perched on the seat like a cat. Or like some great, bizarre-looking vulture.

"That's what's impossible," he elaborated. "No mobile in her case, no mobile in her coat pocket."

"Well, maybe she didn't _have_ one," John suggested.

"She had a string of lovers," Sherlock reminded him. "_Of course_ she had one."

"She did," Swanson said in agreement. "The number even is in her file."

"She could have left it at home," John said with a shrug.

"Again, string of lovers," Sherlock argued. "She would never leave her phone at home."

"Especially if she knew her killer and was afraid of him," Swanson added.

"And so where is it?" John asked, a little impatiently-

Sherlock gave him a tight smile. "You know where it is. More importantly, you know _who_ has it."

John thought for a moment… and then understanding dawned on him. "The murderer?"

Sherlock smiled again. "The murderer, yes." He stood up on the chair, stepped off and onto the floor nonchalantly.

John stared at him in shock before rummaging frantically in his jacket pocket for his phone. "Who did I just text?"

"Maybe she just dropped it in the back of his car," Sherlock said softly. "Maybe she planted it on purpose to lead us to him, but the murderer has her phone."

As if on cue, John's phone began to ring. He looks at the screen, which read:

*077900955* mobile

He handed the phone to Swanson who checked the number with Maggie Hopley's file.

"Yes," she said grimly. "This _is_ her number."

~TBC~


End file.
